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O^0itfessi0its 


OF 


AN APOSTATE. 


/ 

Bt Mbs. J. SADLIEE, 


A UTHOR OF 

“Willy Burke,” “Bessy Conway,” “Elinor Preston,” “Tke Confederate 
Chieftains,” “ Hermit of the Book,” “ Con. O'Eegan,” Etc. 



NEW YORK: 

D. & J. SADLIER & CO., 31 BARCLAY ST., 

BOSTON;— 128 FEDERAL STREET. 

VOXTBXAL : — OOB. OF FOTBB DAHB AKD ST. FBANCIS XAYIBB STS. 

1868. 






'■\u# 



Entered according to Aot of Congress, In the year 1864, by 
D. & J. 8ADLIEE & CO., 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, for the 
Southern District of New York. 




OME years ago the people in that part 
of the beautiful county of Wicklow 
which adjoins the Yale of Glendalough 
were puzzled by the appearance of an 
aged man who suddenly took up his 
abode in a cottage between Laragh 
Bridge and the Valley. This cottage 
had been for years and years inhabited 
only by an old woman and her grand- 
son, a bright boy of twelve or fourteen. 
The house had been a snug little farm- 
house, but for many years past decay had been mak- 
ing sad inroads on its once snowy walls, and the 

0 ) 


8 


CONFESSIONS OP AN APOSTATE. 


kitchen was the only part of it in use, that being 
quite sufficient for the accommodation of the humble 
occupants. The story of the deserted cottage is but 
too common in Ireland. The widow of its former 
owner, being unable to pay the advanced rent 
demanded by the agent of her absentee landlord, 
was turned out on the world, and her farm thrown 
into a sheep-walk. For years after, no one could be 
got to inhabit the cottage, fearing that the widow’s 
curse might be in and around it. At last it received as 
a tenant old Milly FTolan, whose youth and middle age 
had been passed in the service of the agent’s family. 
As no one else would live in the cottage, Milly was 
permitted to take shelter in its mouldering walls with 
her then infant grandson, whose father, her son, had 
been a soldier and died abroad. The poor boy’s 
mother had died in giving birth to little Tony, so 
that the child was solely dependent on his aged rela- 
tive. Milly contrived “ to keep the life in them,” as 
she used to say, herself, “ by showin’ the Churches 
an’ things to the quality from abroad that came to 
see the sights in the glen within.” Tony, too, being, 
as we intimated before, a smart, active lad, was soon 
able to do a little business on his own account in the 
cicerone department. His extreme youth, coupled 
with his natural quickness and that precocious humor 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


9 


which distinguished him from all his brother or sister 
guides, made him exceedingly popular with all tour- 
ists, so that “ Little Tony ” was more in demand, by 
the time he was twelve years old, than any other 
“ guide ” about the Seven Churches. Hardly a day 
went over his head — at least during the summer 
months — that he did not bring home some silver 
pieces to his granny, and his exultation knew no 
bounds when the querulous old woman used to say 
in a tone of surprise that was not quite free from 
vexation : 

“ Why, then, bad cess to you for a sprissaun, where 
in the wide world do you get all the money you do ? 
I’m sure I don’t know how it is that you always 
get more from the quality than any one else !” 

One fine summer morning when the brown moun- 
tains and the dark glen were looking their best, and 
the world outside was all joy and sunshine, the old 
man already mentioned alighted from a jaunting-car 
at Milly’s door, much to Milly’s surprise, for Milly 
“ had never laid eyes on the decent man before,” and 
the car-boy told her he had driven him from Round- 
wood where he staid over night “ at the head-inn, no 
less.” So Milly could only drop a low courtesey, and 
offer a seat to the stranger, wit a a “ God save you, 
sir,” while Tony, drawing back into a corner, took a 


10 COifFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 

leisurely survey of the ‘‘ sosh ould gintleman,” whose 
sun-hurut face told of a protracted sojourn in foreign 
climes. The car-boy, to the full as curious as either 
of the others, having thrown his horse a handful of 
hay from the well* of the car, took up his station 
half in and half out the doorway, with his shoulder 
resting against the post, so as to see and hear what 
was going on between “ Milly the Glen ” and the 
strange traveller from foreign parts. 

Great was the astonishment of the three listeners 
when the old gentleman asked Milly if she could rent 
him a room. “ Humph !” said the car-boy to himself, 
“ he’s no • great shakes after all, when it’s here he’d 
hang up his hat,” and he glanced contemptuously 
round on the half-ruinous walls of the little dwelling. 
“ He’s not right at himself,” was Milly’s first thought. 
“ He’s a queer customer. I’ll go bail,” was Tony’s 
more correct idea. 

Milly’s apprehensions wdth regard to the old man’s 
senses were very considerably lessened by his hand- 
some offer for the use of the little room and her 
general services, and by the time he had taken out a 

* To those who have never seen that peculiarly Irish convey- 
ance a jaunting-car, it will be necessary to explain that the well 
is the middle portion of the vehicle, bounded on either side by 
the back rails. 


.CONFESSIOXS OF AFT APOSTATE. 


11 


sovereign and placed it in her hand as “ earnest,” 
she would have taken her book-oath, if anybody 
asked her, that “ there wasn’t a thing the matter 
with him — barrin’ the outlandish look he had, an’ 
the quare old face for all the world like a leinachaxui 
or something that-a-way.” 

All Milly’s excuses about the miserable condition 
of the place were thrown away on the stranger, who 
appeared to take no notice of them whatsoever. 
"When he had seen his baggage, consisting of two 
trunks, safely lodged in the best of the two rooms, 
he got on the car again, and telling the wmndering 
car-boy to drive him back to Roundwood, away the 
car jingled, lea^dng Milly and her grandson to rub 
their eyes and get over their astonishment as best 
they could. Toward evening the car rattled back 
a2:ain, bringinoj the stranger and some necessaries for 
his new mhiage. Soon after a carman arrived "vvith a 
bed and bedding, and some other few articles of 
furniture, and it took Milly and Tony all the evening 
to put things to rights by bed-time, the old man 
having walked abroad after supper and left the house 
to themselves. 

“ By dad, Tony, agra ! this is great luck for us,” 
observed jMilly, “ but what in the world brings him 
here, do you think ?” 


12 


CONrESSIOKS OF AN APOSTATE. 


Tony’s shrewdness was altogether at fault — “he 
couldn’t make head or tail of it.” “ But did you see 
how he went about the house, granny ? just as if he 
had been in it all his days !” 

“Wisha, then, Tony, I noticed that myself, an’ 
the way he looked about him, too, with the tears in 
his poor ould eyes — do you know what came into my 
head, Tony ?” 

Of course Tony did not know, whereupon his 
granny vouchsafed graciously to enlighten him. 
“ Only it’s easy to see that the ould gintleman comes 
from beyond seas, I’d be most sure that this wasn’t 
the first time for him to be here ” 

“ Whist, granny ! here he comes !” 

How far correct Milly was in her shrewd surmise 
the sequel will tell, but however that might be the 
stranger soon made himself quite at home in the 
neighborhood. Although he frequently took Tony 
for a companion in his rambles, it was evidently more 
for the pleasure of his company than from any need 
of his guidance. Before Tony had gone with him 
many times, he told his granny in confidence that 
“ the ould gintleman knew every foot of the place as 
well as he did. Sorra bit but he could find his way 
with his eyes shut.” Milly heard this with a gleeful 
chuckle, as it went to confirm her own opinion. 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


13 


“ An’ as for the Saint,” went on Tony, “ why, he 
knows all about him, granny. There isn’t a guide 
about the Seven Churches could hould a candle to 
him. Whiles I think he must be a fairy. Lord save 
us ! for you’d swear he was to the fore in the Saint’s 
own time.” 

“ Wisha, then, Tony avick ! but you make my 
flesh creep, so you do ! — an’ how does he say he came 
by so much knowledge as he has ?” 

“ Why, he says he got most of it out of books, 
but, inagh ! they’d be the quare books that ’id tell 
him all he knows ! I’ll tell you what it is, granny, 
I’m gettin’ afeard of him — I don’t half like the way 
he gropes about among the graves, and, listen hither, 
granny !” The boy drew down his grandmother’s 
head, till he whispered in her ear : “ when he goes 
in, at times, to the graveyard, he makes me wait 
outside till he comes back — either that or sends me 
off home. Isn’t that quare ?” 

An exulting laugh was Milly’s answer. “ ITot a 
bit quare, Tony agra ! it’s jist as I tould you at first 
— there’s some of his people in it, an’ he doesn’t want 
you to see what grave he goes to. Watch him now, 
an’ you’ll see if I’m not right.” 

Tony watched accordingly, and from his perch on 
the churchyard wall behind a tall elm, ho saw the 
2 


14 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


mysterious old man kneeling by a neglected grave in 
a remote corner, his tears falling fast and thick on 
the long grass. There was nothing ghostly about 
this — it was real human sorrow, and it went to Tony’s 
heart. From that day forward he attached himself 
to the stranger, and followed him in all his wander- 
ings as a faithful dog follows the footsteps of a kind 
master. And kind the stranger was to Tony, whose 
affection he quickly saw and appreciated. He seemed 
pleased to have the boy with him, and loved to draw 
out his quaint, old-fashioned drollery by encouraging 
him to talk without reserve. They were an oddly 
matched pair, drawn together by some invisible link 
which it would puzzle the most astute metaphysician 
to define. 

The sudden appearance of the stranger, and the 
seclusion in which he lived, gave rise to many strange 
reports, and for some time he was persecuted with 
inquiries, both public and private, as to who and 
what he was, and whence he came. The professional 
services of Milly and her grandson were in greater 
request than they had ever been, but the public 
curiosity seemed to be transferred for the time from 
St. Kevin and his traditionary miracles to “ the mys- 
terious hermit,” as the ladies, especially, loved to call 
our unknown It was seldom, however, that they 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


15 


managed “ to get their eyes on him,” for once he 
found out that he was the greatest lion of the place, 
he studiously kept out of the way during visiting 
hours. His ingenuity was, it is true, put to the 
stretch, for parties of curious ladies, and not less 
curious gentlemen, arrived at all hours under pretense 
of seeing the Valley at sunrise, at noon, at sunset — 
or by moonlight, as the case might be. Some of the 
night arrivals, being told, in answer to their whis- 
pered inquiry, that the old man was in bed, insisted 
on Milly’s making some excuse to open the door that 
they might get even a distant glimpse of him. The 
request being backed by a piece of silver, Milly’s 
fidelity was put to the proof, and she seemed half 
inclined to yield) but Tony indignantly made answer 
that they wouldn’t disturb the gentleman for all the 
money in Dublin town. 

“ Well, well, Tony ! I b’lieve you’re right,” said 
Milly, “ I know if he woke up on us, we’d be kilt 
entirely.” Further expostulation was useless, so the 
disappointed tourists went off in a pout, declaring 
that they’d never set foot in the Valley again, nor a 
sixpence of the]r money Milly should ever handle. 

Next morning Milly took the first opportunity of 
relating what had passed over night ; the old man 
heard her with a smile, till she wound up with : “ It’s 


t 


16 CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 

well come up with them, indeed, to be goin’ on their 
tower ^ drest up like any quality ! It’s little bother 
‘ the sights ’ ’id give them, I’m thinkin’, if it wasn’t 
for their ould lad of a father that turned for a wife, 
an’ got an elegant fine house an’ a power o’ money 
with her. The dirty drop is in them, if they were 
hangin’ in diamonds !” 

“ Mind your own business, woman !” said the 
stranger with sudden emotion, and rising from the 
table, he left his hardly-tasted breakfast, and calling 
Tony to follow him as soon as he had broken his fast, 
rushed out of the cottage, leaving its inmates to 
make what comments they pleased on his strange and 
unaccountable emotion. 

When Tony, with a w^hack of oaten bread in his 
hand, overtook him, a few minutes after, on the road 
to the Churches, he could hardly get a word out of 
him. They entered the dreary Valley, and there the 
old man, seating himself on a stone by the road-side, 
fixed his eyes on his wondering attendant who stood 
silently before him looking at everything but him. 
“Tony!” said the old man. “Well, sir!” “I’m 
going to give you an advice that will be better to 
you than silver or gold !” 

“ I’m very thankful to you, sir !” said little 
Tony. 


CONFESSIONS 'F AN APOSTATE. 


17 


“ Never give up your religion, Tony ! no matter 
what comes or goes, keep it hard an’ fast !” 

“ Is it to turn my coat, you mane, sir ?” said Tony 
half indignantly. “ Ah, then, with God’s help, there’s 
little danger o’ that anyhow !” 

The stranger shook his head. “ Don’t be too sure 
of that, Tony, my man ! I’ve seen some in my time 
that were as steadfast as ever you could be — ay ! till 
they were man-big, and yet, Tony ! the world and 
the devil got the better of them — yes, my boy ! and 
they sold themselves body and soul for — pshaw ! no 
matter what !” 

A party of tourists were now seen descending the 
steep path from St. Kevin’s Bed, and the old man 
left the Valley precipitately, muttering to himself : 
“ If the half of them staid at home and minded their 
business ’twould answer them better. This is no 
place for idle curiosity, and it’s not one in a hundred 
of them that has any other motive in coming here.” 

A year or two of this kind of life seemed to soothe 
the stranger’s troubled mind, and in the practice of 
religious duty, with such works of charity as pre- 
sented themselves in that secluded spot, his days 
rolled on in peace. The only one whom he visited 
was the parish priest, and with him many of his 
hours were spent. Many attempts, direct and indi- 
2 * 


18 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


rect, were made to get at his history through the 
priest — for people had all made up their minds that 
his reverence knew all about it — ^but pumping and 
sounding, and all the other ingenious contrivances 
failed. If Father O’Byrne knew the secret, he kept 
it to himself. 

It was not till the old man’s death, which occurred 
about two years after his arrival in the neighborhood, 
that his story was made public, and then by his own 
request, in order, as he said, to deter others from 
treading that path which he had found so fatal. The 
following is that portion of his autobiography left in 
the hands of the priest for publication. It may be 
well to mention that little Tony was not forgotten. 
Twenty good pounds were left him by his old master, 
quite enough “ to make a man of him,” as old Milly 
said, but it didn’t make a man of him, for Tony was 
still “ Little Tony, the guide-boy,” and for many and 
many a long year after his twenty sovereigns lay 
snugly away in company with some pounds of silver, 
in Milly’s “ old stocking ” somewhere up in the thatch 
over the house-doer. 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


19 


IHE CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE; 

OR, 

LEAVES FROM A TROUBLED LIFE. 

The term apostate is a harsh one to apply to one’s 
self, and I must confess I do not half like the look of 
it when I have it down in black and white. Truth 
must be told, however, and I know very well that 
long before my story is ended the Catholic reader 
will have no qualms about the application of the 
word, so I may as well anticipate the verdict. 

How I came to fall away from the faith of my 
ancestors is at times a marvel to myself, although 
when I have traced the course of my apostasy, my 
readers will find it all so natural as to excite no sur- 
prise in them. The same causes have, doubtless, 
produced, and will again produce, the same effects 
in those who voluntarily thrust themselves into temp- 
tation, when far away from the healthful influences 
and the salutary restraints that made their home-life 
virtuous and happy. For their benefit, then, I will 
do violence to my proud heart and tear open the 
festering wounds which Time, the great healer, has 
partially closed. 


20 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


My childhood and youth were passed amid scenes 
calculated to nourish piety by raising the mind from 
earth to heaven. I was born in Wicklow County, in 
the immediate neighborhood of Glendalough, “ the 
Irish Palmyra,” as it has been aptly called. The 
particular “ spot where I was born ” is of little con- 
sequence to the reader ; suffice it, then, to say that it 
was about midway between Laragh Bridge and the 
entrance to the Valley, somewhat nearer the latter. 
My father was a small farmer, rather easy in his cir- 
cumstances, inasmuch as he was always able to face 
the landlord on quarter-day, and was, moreover, the 
owner of considerable stock, principally consisting 
of those goats whose milk converted into “ whey ” is 
a favorite specific for incipient consumption among 
the inhabitants of the Irish metropolis. The scant 
herbage of those mountains is peculiarly palatable to 
the hardy animal whose presence alone gives life to 
many a desert-scene in that wild, remote region. 
Many of my childish days were passed following the 
goats over and around the mountains which encircle 
the gloomy vale, and it was my pleasure to clamber 
after my sure-footed companions to the highest steep 
of Derrybawn or Lugduff, and thence look down on 
the wondrous scene beneath and around me. The 
gloom of St. Kevin’s Valley was awful to me, and 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


21 


when, at times, I did venture down amid the mould- 
ering relics of the past with which it is so thickly 
strewn, the silence and utter loneliness of the place 
chilled my young heart. And yet I loved dearly to 
tread my way amongst the old tombstones, half-buried 
in the grass, and creep under the crumbling arches 
at the apparent risk of being crushed beneath some 
falling fragment. The danger, however, was only 
imaginary, as I soon found out. The masonry at 
Glendalough is proof against time and the elements, 
as grey and seemingly as indestructible as the dark 
rocks around. Much of it will stand in all probability 
to the judgment-day, like the faith which reared 
those sacred piles in the infant days of the Irish 
Church. 

As a general thing, however, the children of the 
neighboring district have no fondness for the Glen. 
The everlasting gloom which rests upon it, owing, I 
believe, to the dark coloring of the steep mountains 
around — the silence that broods within it “ from night 
till morn, from morn till dewy eve,” — the air of solemn 
mystery which overhangs the ruins, with the weird 
and lonely pillar-tower rising like a tall spectre high 
over all — oh ! it is a scene of more than desert soli- 
tude, and its desolation is oppressive even to persona 
of mature age. 


22 


CONFESSIONS OF AK APOSTATE. 


Some of my very earliest recollections are of devo- 
tional assemblies in the old stone-roofed chapel 
known to our antiquarians as St. Kevin’s Kitchen. 
Its wonderful state of preservation induced some 
former parish priest to make use of it as a chapel of 
ease, for the convenience of the surrounding peasan- 
try, and during all the years of my youth it w'as our 
general place Of worship. It was there my mother 
took me by the hand on Sunday and holiday mornings 
to hear Mass, followed by a colloquial discourse from 
his reverence Father Brannigan, the most paternal 
and the best-natured of all old priests. It was there 
we children assembled again in the afternoon for 
Catechism, and I can well remember the various tra- 
ditional anecdotes of the great St. Kevin and his 
successors in the Abbacy of Glendalough, wherewith 
his reverence used to diversify his familiar instruc- 
tions. It was in that lone mountain-chapel, amid the 
mouldering bones of many generations, close by the 
silent city of the dead that I, with a brother and 
sister, made my first Communion, and the simple joy 
of our parents is even now vividly before me, although 
forty-and-three years have passed since that auspici- 
ous day, and the snow of a premature old age has 
settled on my head. 

When a few more years had rolled away I began 


CONFESSIONS OP AN APOSTATE. 


23 


occasionally to make my “ stations,” that is to say, 
to perform at a certain spot within th6 consecrated 
vale, a certain numbers of prayers and penitential 
works, cheering my drooping spirits ever and anon 
with thoughts of the superhuman endurance with 
which St. Kevin and many other holy men had there 
undergone all manner of austere self-punishment and 
mortification. So great was my fervor then that I 
wished I had lived when Glendalough was a city and 
the old Abbey and the Seven Churches were all fre- 
quented by saints, who spent much of their time in 
prayer and penance. Many a time I made my mother 
laugh by wishing with a heavy sigh that I could be a 
Saint. I often wished her to tell me what the Saints 
used to do, but my poor mother, although well ac- 
quainted with the popular tradition of the place, was 
not much versed in hagiology, and from her I learned 
passing little of the real every-day life of the holy 
anchorets around whose desert retreat a city had 
sprung into existence. She told me to ask Father 
Brannigan, but I never found courage to do so. 

At a later period of my life I learned more about 
the past of what I might call my native Valley than 
any of my immediate progenitors had ever dreamed 
of in their pastoral simplicity. Looking back on that 
religious solitude with the light of history and of 


24 


CONPESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


antiquarian lore, it has a character of supernatural 
sublimity, and over it hangs a cloud of mystery 
which enhances its solemn and gloomy grandeur. 
As I gamboled with my brothers and sisters, 
and other pupils of the hedge-school, kept within a 
bow-shot of the Glen’s mouth by the self-esteemed 
philomath Patricias O’Grady, none of us ever thought 
of St. Lawrence O’Toole, when Abbot of Glenda- 
lough, going out in the dead of night to that very 
graveyard to pray for the souls of the generations 
who slept beneath. Even had we known it we could 
not then have appreciated the strong faith and the 
tender charity which moved the soul of the holy 
Abbot during those mystic communings with the 
Master of Life and Death amongst the mournful 
dwellings of the dead. Still, even with the knowl- 
edge I had then, I reverenced the Saints in general, 
but especially the great St. Kevin of Glendalough, 
whom I considered as holding a very important post 
in the court of heaven. 

My recollections of the Yalley are not all of a 
sombre or religious kind. Once a year, during the 
merry month of May, the people flocked thither from 
all the surrounding parishes to celebrate the patronal 
feast ; and then, at least, the old walls and the lake 
shore and all the lonesome Glen resounded with 


CONFESSION'S OF AN APOSTATE. 


25 


shouts of harmless merriment and light-hearted glee. 
It was a sort of carnival for the whole country-side, 
and it seemed as though every soul of the laughing, 
frolicsome crowd went there with the fixed intention 
of making the Glen as noisy and as full of life for 
that one day, as it was silent and lugubrious all the 
year round. 

It was, on the whole, a joyous and a stirring scene, 
and were it in any other place but the Yalley of 
Glendalough I could look back on it with unalloyed 
pleasure. As it is, with the more correct taste aris- 
ing from some degree of cultivation, I cannot bear 
to dwell on “the patron,” because it jars on my 
recollections of the silent and holy Glen, just as I 
would shrink from disturbing the stilly surface of its 
dark waters where the grey old ruins have been 
mirrored from time immemorial. Taking one thing 
with another, my peasant life near Glendalough was 
both innocent and happy ; but it passed away all too 
soon, and left me alone and unsheltered in a new, 
and, alas ! a far more trying phase of my existence. 

When I was about sixteen, my father died ; and 
although my eldest brother was come to man’s estate, 
and had been for years the chief manager of our 
little farm, still the head of the house was gone, and 
the family began to scatter. One or tAVO of the boys, 
3 


26 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


younger than I, took it into their heads to learn 
trades, and my mother did not wish to prevent them, 
although it made her heart ache to see any of us 
leaving the paternal cottage, and worse still, passing 
from under the maternal care. My eldest sister was 
sent to keep house for an uncle whose wife had died ; 
and another went “ to serve her time to a manty- 
maker,” as the all-important fraternity of dress-mak- 
ers are styled by the Irish peasantry, in utter disre- 
gard of etymological propriety. For myself, I all at 
once discovered that herding goats on the mountains 
was not my vocation, and the ruins of Glendalough 
had no longer the same attractions for my newly- 
awakened spirit. The lough’s “ gloomy shore ” 
might be a very pleasant moonlight ramble for the 
troubled ghost of the fair Kathleen, but to me it 
became a very dull, common-place sort of thing, and I 
even began to laugh at the time-honored traditions 
wherewith tourists are successively entertained, for 
which contumacious heterodoxy I got “ my head in 
my fist ” sundry times from the wrathful “ guides,” 
the Hades of those scenes. 

At heart, however, I still reverenced the sanctity 
of the place, and I never could pass any of the Seven 
Churches or the old Abbey- walls without a feeling of 
religious awe. This was strengthened, unconsciously 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


27 


to myself, by a tradition which I have since found 
common to all, or nearly all, the ecclesiastical ruins 
of Ireland, but which I then only knew in connection 
with our own Yalley. It was one of those which I 
earliest heard, and it took, of all others, the deepest 
hold on my imagination. The legend went that in 
old, old times, no one knew how long ago, a certain 
graceless wight who had spent his Saturday night 
and Sunday morning in a shebeen-house, up some- 
where amongst the mountains, was taking a short-cut 
home through the Glen at the very hour when Mass 
was going on in the chapels all the country round. 
All at once the sonorous chime of a church-bell broke 
on his ear, and turning round in a fright, what should 
he see but a priest saying Mass in the old Teampul-na- 
Skellig, where there was no roof but the blue sky, 
and hardly enough of the walls remaining to shelter 
a banshee. It was a ghastly sight for mortal eye to 
look on, for the priest was not of this world, nor yet 
the cowled monks who formed his congregation. 
Spectres they all were, sent to warn the unhappy 
reprobate, as he well knew, of the tremendous value 
of the Holy Sacrifice. Tradition says that the lesson 
was not lost on the careless sinner who, from that 
time forward, was careless no more, and never after 
neglected the command to sanctify the Sabbath at 


28 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


least by bearing Mass. Let no one scoff at this 
simple legend, for in it lies a profound meaning, and 
it is such traditions that help to keep the faith alive, 
and ever burning in the hearts of a Christian people. 
Well for me and many, many others, if we had never 
been drifted by the current of life out of the reach 
of these moorings. Many of those who bear the 
brand of Apostate^ will echo these words with a sad 
and heavy heart. But now for my “ ower true tale.” 


CONFESSIOJTS OF AN AFOSTATE. 


29 


CHAPTER IL 

SIMON GOES TO PUSH HIS FORTUNE. 



IME rolled on — one year followed anoth- 
er, and I was fast approaching the age 
of manhood, without the smallest pros- 
pect of any change in my oondition. 
Day after day I toiled away on my 
mother’s little farm, always looking 
dreamily out for some lucky chance of 
bettering my fortune, and at the same 
time seeing the world. I was natu- 
rally of a romantic turn of mind, and 
although the world of romance had 
scarcely ever been presented to my 
view through the medium of books, 


still I was not without my inspiration. I had drank 
in with greedy ears the stories which old people told 
around the winter’s hearth of venturesome poor boys 
like myself — most of them rejoicing in the name of 


30 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


Jack — who had left their natal cot “ to go and push 
their fortune.” Success had invariably crowned the 
search — so that fortune was sure to be found by 
those who sought her in earnest. Although I could 
not expect to fall in with any enchanted princess 
who, rescued by my puissant valor, would reward 
me with her fair hand, and the trifling compensation of 
“ a crown of gold,” or any of those beneficent fairies 
who brought about such happy results in that indefi- 
nite period “ once upon a time,” still there was 
wealth to be won, and honors, too, in that world 
which I pictured to myself in such glowing tints. 
To go no farther than Dublin “ there abroad,” had 
not Timothy Scanlan, a neighbor boy of our own, 
made a power of money in it, and all in the course 
of a few years, as everybody knew ? Inflamed by 
the recollection of Timothy’s success, I waxed more 
impatient from day to day, saying to myself, as I 
rested on my spade in the potato-garden behind the 
house, “ Now, Simon, my boy, if people can do so 
well in Dublin, what must it be in foreign parts ? 
I’ll go bail, it isn’t plantin’ potatoes you’d be, if you 
oust got there. You’d be a gintleman in no time, 
Simy dear, with a fine shuit o’ clothes on your back, 
an’ a watch in your fob, too — who knows ?” And 
thereupon I dashed my spade into the ground with 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


31 


renewed vigor. “ Work away now, Simy,” I further 
soliloquized, “ your diggin’ days ’ill soon be over, 
please God ! Ah ! but what will the poor mother 
do then ?” This thought smote heavily on my heart, 
and I began to whistle “ Paudeen O’Rafferty ” at a 
furious rate, in order to drown reflection for that 
time. 

My poor mother did not fail to notice the change 
in my habits. Indeed, my very appearance changed, 
for the struggle perpetually going on within me, 
between ambition and the newly-awakened desire of 
“ seeing the world ” on the one hand, and my filial 
and fraternal affections on the other, gave me neither 
rest nor peace. I grew pale, thin and languid, and 
my mother began to fear that there was something 
the matter with me. Many a milk-posset, and savory 
little messes not a few, were prepared by her kind 
motherly hands to tempt my failing appetite, but 
still she had the mortification of seeing me dull and 
heavy, and, with a view to divert me, she one day 
told me to take “ a slip of a pig ” she had, to the 
market town a few miles off, and sell it. I went 
accordingly, but, as my mother often said, in after 
times, “ it was the dear journey to her.” At the 
market I met an old acquaintance of ours, one Patt 
Byrne, who had some years before removed to 


32 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


another part of the country. Patt was very glad to 
see me, and, of course, I was just as glad to see 
him. I had disposed of my “ honeen ” to good ad- 
vantage, and, that care off my mind, I was nothing 
loath to accept the treat which Patt insisted on giv- 
ing me for the sake of “ Auld lang syne.” While 
we sat in a back room, in Johnny McGrath’s public- 
house, sipping our respective glasses of “ the real 
mountain-dew th^t never seen water,” we discoursed 
of many things, chiefly relating to my poor father, 
who had been a bosom-crony of Patt Byrne’s long 
before my advent, and long after it, too. All at once, 
however, Patt threw me into an awful flurry by the 
announcement that he was going with his family to 
America. 

“To America !” I cried out in surprise, “ ah then, 
Patt, what put that in your head ?” 

“ Why, then, bad cess to the one o’ me knows, 
Simy, barrin’ it’s a letter I got from Tommy Smith, 
the boy that my sister Catty ran away with a little 
before we left your neighborhood.” 

“Well! an’ how did he do?” I inquired with 
breathless interest. 

“ How did he do, is it ? why, I b’lieve he hardly 
knows the end of his own riches — that’s how ‘he 
done.” 


CONFESSIONS OF- AN APOSTATE. 


33 


“ An’ you’re all goiii’ to where he is ?” 

“ By dad, I b’lieve so. My woman has got the 
notion in her head, an’ I’m not much again it myself, 
either, for we have a family growin’ uj), you see, an’ 
there’s no prospect here for them but hard work an’ 
little for it.” 

“ I’ll tell you what, Patt !” said I starting to my 
feet ; “ I’ll be with you myself, if God spares me !” 

“ You will, Simy ? why, then, I pray God it may 
be a good move for all of us. You’ll be able to do 
more for the ould woman there than you would here, 
twice over.” 

It was then agreed that I should break the matter 
to my mother with as little delay as possible, and, 
her consent once gained, proceed with my prepara- 
tions as fast as I could, for, as Patt said, “ a good 
thing couldn’t be done too soon.” 

We parted on these terms, and, as maybe believed, 
I lost no time in asking my mother’s consent to my 
going. It was no easy matter to obtain it, not even 
so easy as I expected. In vain did I hold out every 
inducement that I could think of. All was no use, 
for some time. The mother’s love was too powerful 
to be overcome by reasoning, or by any amount of 
promise. 

“ Xow, mother dear !” I said on one occasion when 


34 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


I was almost in despair, “ you know if I stay here 
for fifty years we’ll be no better than we are now, 
an’ I never can do anything for you like what I’d 
wish to do. If you’ll only let me go, now, you’ll see 
the fine haver bonnet I’ll be sendin’ you some o’ 
these days all the way from America — an’, may be, a 
shuit of silk into the bargain !” 

This brought a smile to my mother’s wan face, but 
she shook her head resolutely. “Don’t be tryin’ 
to palaver me that way, now, Simy ! you know well 
enough I wouldn’t wear silk no matter who sent it, 
for that’s what no one belongin’ to me ever wore.” 

But although promises relating to herself were all 
thrown away, my mother could not hold out against 
my continual entreaties, backed by those of my broth- 
ers and sisters, who thought it would be a fine thing 
to have one of the family, at least, on the high 
road to fortune. She was obliged to give in at last, 
and as we had no ready money in our possession 
after paying the “ May gale,” she told me with a 
faltering voice to take off one of our three cows that 
she named to the next fair, and see if she wouldn’t 
bring enough to pay my passage and rig me out for 
the voyage. The blessing which I invoked on my 
mother at that moment was so fervent and so full of 
feeling that it brought the tears to her aged eyes. 


CONFESSIONS OP AN APOSTATE. 


35 


I was too much elated then to heed her emotion, but 
I have many a time thought of it since those loving 
eyes were closed for ever. 

So the “ fine springer ” was sold, and, to my 
great joy, a fine price she brought. My sea-store 
was amply provided, including a number of cakes of 
double-baked oaten bread of my mother’s own mak- 
ing — she would suffer no one to have a hand in it 
but herself. A voyage to America was then far dif- 
ferent from what it is now, and was considered a sort 
of neck-or-nothing enterprise, that was either to ter- 
minate in an ocean-grave or a fabulous amount of 
wealth. It was looked upon as something awful to 
“ tempt the great deep,” and he who made up his 
mind to undertake the voyage was regarded with a 
sort of romantic interest, not more on account of the 
positive dangers he w^as about to brave, than the 
mysterious regions to w^hich he was going and tho 
strange adventures which were supposed to await 
him — adventures, however, which were all to “ lead 
men on to fortune.” My mother’s consent once 
gained, there w^as little else thought of, or little else 
done in the house for the intervening time but “ get- 
in’ Simy’s things ready.” To the younger members 
of the fami'y there was pleasure in the bustle of 
preparation, although their labor of love was not 


30 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


unmixed with sorrow ; but for my poor mother there 
was no joy — no amount of hope could cheer her, 
For myself, I kept out of her sight as much as I 
possibly could, for her grief touched my heart to its 
very core, and I feared that my resolution might give 
way, if I allowed myself to think of her approaching 
bereavement. 

It is needless to dwell on the final parting. Such 
scenes are too painful to be often exposed to the 
public eye, — an organ which is usually more critical 
than compassionate. Suffice it to say, that about the 
middle of June, just when the whole country round 
w^as preparing for St. Kevin’s “ patron,” Patt Byrne’s 
family and myself, with a couple of neighbor boys, 
who had been incited to follow my example, all set 
out for Dublin, accompanied for miles and miles of 
the way by a numerous “ convoy ” of friends and 
acquaintances. When it came to the last, my heart 
almost failed me, and it required all the courage I 
could muster to sustain me at that trying moment. 
But even that passed away, as all things earthly do. 
My poor sorrowing mother, and all the rest of my 
kindred vanished from my eyes — alas ! that I should 
say, for ever. There was no time to look about me in 
the great city, for the ship in which our passage was 
taken was to sail in an hour, and we were obliged to 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 37 

Lurry at once on board, and leave all tbe city wonders 
unseen — those wonders of which we had heard so much. 

Our voyage was rather tedious, and its vicissitudes 
were many, including perhaps, more than the usual 
amount of sea-sickness. Patt Byrne lost his youngest 
child, a rosy, chubby, prattling boy of three years 
old ; and the event threw a damp on us all, especially 
when we saw the poor little fellow, who had been a 
general favorite in the steerage, sewed up in a can- 
vas and thrown overboard. That was the first cloud 
that settled on our path, and I have often thought 
since that it was ominous of evil. Its impression on 
us youngsters was, however, only transient, and when, 
at the end of nine dreary weeks, we were told by the 
sailors that we were on the far-famed “ Banks of 
Newfoundland,” we were “ entirely elevated,” as poor 
old Patricius O’Grady of erudite memory used to 
say. Boston was our destination, and when, after a 
few days more, our ship cast anchor in Massachusetts 
Bay, and we saw the stately old Puritan city before 
us, with its numerous spires and its palace-like dwell- 
ings, rising grandly from the bosom of the waters, 
we forgot all our sorrows and all our troubles, and 
felt that “ all sorts of good luck ” must await us in 
that land which presented to our view so noble a 
frontispiece. 

4 


38 


CONFESSIONS OP AN APOSTATE. 


The captain of our ship had taken a fancy to me 
at an early period of our voyage, and he was good 
enough to interest himself on my behalf. He pro- 
cured me a situation as porter in an extensive hard- 
ware establishment, the proprietor of which was an 
old friend of his. My enthusiastic admiration of 
“ America ’’ had been somewhat staggered by the 
state of affairs in the marine lodging-house where 
^ve had all “ put up ” for the first week. It w^as one 
of those old, rickety wooden buildings much beloved 
by bugs, and other such nocturnal vampires wdiich 
are unluckily no rarity in seaport cities ; and as those 
interesting insects are well-known to delight in 
“ alien ” blood, I was so tormented that I almost 
wished myself back again in the old whitewashed 
cottage among the bare Wicklow mountains, which 
humble dwelling was, at least, bug-less. The temp- 
tation to repent was happily of short duration. One 
of the other porters at Brown & Steenson’s, hearing 
of my affliction, kindly undertook to procure me 
relief, laughing heartily the while at my piteous com- 
plaints, and telling me for my comfort that that was 
little to what I had before me. His laughter annoyed 
me a little at the time, but I soon forgave him, for he 
made arrangements that very evening for me in his 
own boarding-house, where I next day made my 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


39 


entrance, very glad to get rid of my first lodging by 
paying for the week I had but just commenced. 
The change was a positive relief to me, for, although 
it was no more than a third or fourth class boarding- 
house, still it was clean and well kept ; and I felt, as 
I stretched my weary limbs for the first time on the 
soft flock bed, that there, at least, I was sure of ob- 
taining that rest which for many nights I had wooed 
in vain. And I was not disappointed. Sleep settled, 
like a halcyon, on my heavy eye-lids. I slept and 
dreamed of home — 

“ The home of my fathers — that welcomed me back.” 

That home had not yet lost its charms for me. The 
old affections that bound me to its inmates were still 
strong, and fresh, and active. I did not repent com- 
ing to America, for my path had been, as yet, smooth 
and easy ; and I was just at the age when novelty 
has charms that can give enchantment to all we see. 
There were some things, however, that even novelty 
could not make agreeable. Of this kind was the 
peculiar manner in which every one spoke of Catho- 
lics, those of Ireland in particular. I soon found 
out that most of my fellow-boarders, some eight or 
ten in numbler, were not Catholics, whatever else 
they might be. From their conversation I gathered, 


40 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


to my utter dismay, that to be a Catholic was bad 
enough, but to be an Irishman and a Catholic reduced 
a man to the very lowest social grade. My good- 
natured comrade, who was himself an Englishman, 
seeing my confusion, and the mortification which I 
could not conceal, took up the cudgels on my behalf, 
and told the others flatly that “ he didn’t see but 
what Hirishmen were about as good as other men, 
and if most of them were given to Papistry, and fond 
of counting over beads and such like ’armlerss fal-de- 
rals, why, no one need quarrel with them for that. It 
didn’t do no one any ’arm but themselves.” 

An ironical “ hear, hear !” frqm various parts of 
the room greeted this blunt, but well-meant declara- 
tion. My friend, no whit disconcerted, laid his brawny 
hand on my shoulder, and went on : 

“ Them’s my notions, now, I tell you plainly ; and 
another thing I have to say is this : You know as 
well as I do that this ’ere lad is from Paddy’s land. 
It ain’t manly, then, to be eternally down on the 
Hirish when they’re only as one to ten in the house. 
I won’t stand it no how, for it was I brought him 
here, and I’ll see that he gets fair play while he’s 
in it.” 

There was some grumbling on this, and not a few 
sarcastic observations on this newly-awakened sym- 


CX)NFESSIONS OF AX il’OSTATE. 41 

pathy for the Irish, but my frit nd was not a man to 
be trifled with. Like that prince of recruits who 
w^as met by “ Sergeant Snap at the fair of Clogheen,” 

“ His brawny shoulders were four feet square, 

His cheeks like thumping red potatoes. 

His legs would make a chairman’s chair ” — 

he was, in short, a burly, stout young Englishman, 
strongly imbued with that love of fair play for which 
his countrymen individually (not nationally) are dis- 
tinguished. It so happened that most of the other 
boarders were but sparely gifted with personal 
strength or vigor, and the stalwart proportions of the 
“man of Kent,” inspired them with considerable 
respect, not altogether unmixed with fear. As a 
general thing John Parkinson was the best-natured 
soul living, but occasions did sometimes turn up when 
he expressed himself with an energy that startled his 
hearers, and gave them the idea of a lion waking up 
from sleep and shaking his shaggy mane with a 
threatening growl. The present occasion was one of 
these, and hence it was that w^hen he enforced his 
last words by striking the table with his fist, at the 
same time casting a glance of fierce inquiry around 
the company, the sneer vanished from every lip, and, 
each one tried to give the afiair the appearance of 
a jest. 


4 * 


42 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


“ Jest, indeed !” said John, “ there’s no one likes a 
jest better than I do, but I can’t stand such jests as 
that, no how ! Let the lad alone, that’s my advice to 
you all !” 

Next time we were alone together, I expressed my 
obligations to Parkinson for his friendly interference 
in my favor, but honest J ohn interrupted me with : 

“ Don’t mention it, Simon, don’t mention it, if you 
please ! If the Pope himself was in your place, John 
Parkinson wouldn’t be the man to stand by and see 
him crowed down that way — though most like I 
wouldn’t stay long in the one house with him — but, 
howsomever, Simon, I go in for fair play, and that’s 
an advice I’ll give yoii ^ — always take part with the 
weakest, be they right or be they wrong ! Lend a 
hand here to hoist this bale !” 

“ What is that, if you please ?” 

“ Don’t be making a fool of yourself showing off 
Popery airs. That sort of thing won’t go doAvn 
here, take my word for it. It was all very w'ell in your 
country where the people were most all of one way 
of thinking, and where you could walk on your bare 
knees from morning till night without no one laugh- 
ing at you ; but here the people’s all wide awake, 
Simon, and you’ll have to be wide awake, too, if you 
want to get along. If you keep your Popish notions 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


43 


to yourself, and don’t let any one know what persua- 
sion you belong to, you’ll go ahead fast. Mind your 
business, Simon, and let religion alone — pack it oft' 
to your old mother in Ireland, my fine fellow !” 

There were some things in this speech that I found 
it hard to swallow, especially the contemptuous allu- 
sion to the “ Stations,” which I had been taught to 
regard with so much reverence. But when I looked 
at John’s frank, good-natured face, and saw the 
benevolent smile with which he regarded me, I 
couldn’t for my life resent that or anything else he 
had said. So I merely thanked him for his good 
advice, and promised to make no unnecessary display 
of religion for the time to come. 

Notwithstanding the protecting kindness of John 
Parkinson, I could not help feeling a sense of loneli- 
ness on finding myself - alone amongst Protestants, a 
state of things which had never entered into my 
calculations. I had never before come in contact 
with any but those of my own religion, and it seemed 
so strange to hear the holiest things, the most sacred 
mysteries, spoken lightly of — it was so startling to 
find people doubting and scoffing at truths which 
were to me as certain as my existence, that I felt 
bewildered as one rudely awoke from a dreamless 
slumber. 


44 


CONCESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


I was mistaken, however, in supposing iryself the 
only Catholic in the house. There was one young fellow 
whom I had all along taken for a North of Ireland 
Protestant, notwithstanding his Milesian cognomen 
of O’Hanlon. He was a thin-faced, sharp-featured 
young man, with that shrewd and reserved cast of 
countenance which usually belongs to our Gaelic 
kinsmen of “ Auld Scotia.” He had never taken 
part in any of the conversations concerning religion, 
and seemed, as I thought, perfectly indifferent about 
the matter. 

Who can imagine my surprise when, on the first 
Thursday after my arrival, Harry O’Hanlon overtook 
me as I was returning to the store after breakfast, 
and accosted me with : 

“ I say, O’Hare, what are you going to do to-mor- 
low 

“ Do to-morrow ! what do you mean ?” 

“ Why in regard to eating meat — you know to- 
morrow’s Friday !” 

“ I know it is — but — ^but — why, to be sure I can’t 
eat flesh-meat, any how !” 

I fully expected to see O’Hanlon burst out laugh- 
ing, but he did no such thing. 

“All right, Simon, that’s just what I wanted — 
now, I’m a Catholic, too — ” 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


45 


“You a Catholic ! the sorra that you are now, 
O’Hanlon ! simple as you think me, you’ll not put 
that down my throat.” 

“ Well, believe it or not, I tell you I aw a Catholic, 
though, God help me ! I’m only a poor one — but let 
that pass for we’re both in a hurry. The old dame 
never puts a bit of fish on the table on a Friday or 
Saturday, and, till now, as I was the only Catholic in 
it, I hadn’t the face to ask her for any.” 

“ And what in the world did you do ?” I inter- 
rupted. 

“Well, God forgive me,” he said with some em- 
barrassment, “ I done what many a one like me has 
to do here — when I couldn’t get fish, I eat flesh !” 

“ The de’il’s in your gut then !” I exclaimed in- 
dignantly, “ aren’t you the nice fellow all out ?” 

O’Hanlon laughed good-humoredly at what he 
called my childish anger. “ But keep your temper, 
now, Simon, till you hear me out. Now that there’s 
two of us, we can ask for fish with a better grace, 
and eat it too, if we get it, which I wouldn’t have 
cared to do before. What I want you to do now, is 
to back me up when I ask Mrs. Johnson to have fish 
cooked for us two on Fridays and Saturdays.* If 

♦ It will be remembered that this was forty-eight years .ago, 
when meat was forbidden on Saturday as well as on Friday. 


46 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


she refuses, we’ll both threaten to leave, and then 
she’ll give in, I know, for the house is rather thin 
with her at the present time.” 

Of course I promised to do my part, and, wonder- 
ing what was to come next in so queer a place — at 
least amongst such queer people — I went to resume 
my work. 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


47 


CHAPTER III. 



It TRS. JOHKSOISr was quite as sur* 
prised as I had been when O’Han* 
Ian, with no small degree of hesitation, 
preferred his request that he and I 
might have fish for our Friday’s din> 
ner. The chopping-knife wherewith 
she had been doing her best to pul- 
verize some roast beef for that pecu- 
liarly American compound known as 
“ hash,” suddenly suspended its opera- 
tions ; and she stood looking from one 
to the other of us with a comical look 
of bewilderment. Catholics, the read- 
er will remember, were but sparely scattered in those 
days amongst the people of the Puritan city. The 


48 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


veritable “ follower of Rome ” was almost as great a 
curiosity as a Choctaw or a Cherokee. 

“ So you’re a Papist, after all !” said the wonder- 
ing Mrs. Johnson ; “ well, I never ! and you want fish 
on Friday now, though you’ve been eating meat here 
every day for over half a year. What’s got into 
you now, Mr. O’Hanlon ?” 

O’Hanlon explained that so long as he was alone, 
he didn’t care to trouble her to provide fish for him ; 
and, besides, he was rather afraid of the others laugh- 
ing at him. But now that he had another to back 
him up, he didn’t mind — one of us would keep the 
other in countenance. 

“ Well ! I guess it’s about the same thing to me,” 
said Mrs. Johnson, resuming her chopping, V whether 
I cook fish or flesh for you. If you had only said the 
word before, I’d have given you fish as often as you 
liked. Some folks wouldn’t give in to Romish super- 
stition like that ; but that ain’t my way — I jest try 
to give my boarders whatever they like best, and, 
although I can’t for my life see what diflerence it 
makes whether folks eat fish or flesh — if so be that it 
doesn’t disagree with them — still, I go in for letting 
every one have his own way so long as he pays me 
for my trouble.” 

Satisfled with this w’e left the kitchen. As we 


COISTESSIOH-S OP AN APOSTATE. 


49 


ascended the stairs we heard the old woman remark- 
ing to her “ help,” viz. : a stout New England girl 
who was her “ maid of all work.” 

“ Did you ever hear of such strange people as the 
Irish? I guess them and the Jews are most the 
same. The Jews won’t eat pork, and the Papists 
won’t eat fish — except at particular times. But I 
swon, I wouldn’t have believed that Hanlon was a 
Papist. I suppose, now, it’s because he’s afraid of 
the other chap telling that man they call the Pope of 
Rome. I have heard tell as how if any one was 
accused of disobepng him, he’d send orders imme- 
diately to some of his secret agents, and before the 
poor unsuspicious victim could know anything about 
it, he’d be whished right off and clapped into a dun- 
geon somewhere, and fed on bread and water no one 
knows how long !” 

The girl’s exclamation of horror came out in such 
fervor, that it was as much as O’Hanlon and myself 
could do to get out on the street before we gave free 
vent to our merriment. 

“ Why, then, now, O’Hanlon,” said I, when he had 
closed the door after us, “ do you think there’s any 
one in America so simple as to give ear in earnest to 
such foolish stories as that ?” 

“ Ay, indeed are there, Simon !” replied O’Hanlon, 
5 


60 


C0I5TESS10NS OF AK APOSTATE. 


still laughing at my earnestness. “ There’s thousands 
and tens of thousands that are cute and sharp enough 
in everything else, Only in regard to Popery, as they 
call it. The most nonsensical story any one can 
invent about priests or nuns, or the Pope, or the like 
o’ that, oh, be dad ! it’ll go down slick with them — I 
have heard stories of the kind myself that would 
make a cat laugh till she’d split her sides, and still it 
was every word taken for gospel.” 

“Well, if that doesn’t bate Banagher !” I ex- 
claimed, “ sure a weeny little child at home would 
have more sense than all that comes to !” 

“ To be sure it would, Simon ; for there everybody 
knows the differ, but here, you see, it’s most all hear- 
say with them, most of them knows as little about 
Catholics as they do about the man in the moon, and 
their preachers are the greatest hands in the world- 
Vride, by all accounts, at inventing stories — just like 
the old seanackies that used to be goin’ about long 
ago in Ireland — they earn their living, the creatures I 
by making stories and telling them. The only differ- 
ence is, Simon, that the seanackies used to tell about 
ghosts and fairies, and the like, and the ministers’ 
stories are all about Popery I” 

Not much enligl tened, but more mystified than 
ever by O’llanlon’s explanation, I went off to Patt 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


51 


Byrne’s to see how things were getting on there. I 
found the whole family in high spirits. Patt and his 
eldest son were both employed by the corporation, 
and between them they brought in twelve dollars 
every Saturday night. Their work was hard, to be 
sure, very hard, but what of that, they said, so long 
as they were well paid for it. They evidently did 
not calculate then, what sad experience taught them 
afterwards, that twelve dollars a week in a large city 
did not go far beyond the support of a large family. 

“ Why, Simy !” said my friend Patt, “ if things 
goes on in this way, it’s buyin’ property I’ll be some of 
these days — Nancy an’ myself took a walk out a 
Sunday evenin’ to see some lots for buildin’ that they 
say are to be got very reasonable.” 

“ Yis,” put in Nancy, “ and we’re goin’ to put up 
a nice little house on the lot when we get it, and I 
think we’ll have a room to spare for you, Simy, and 
then you’ll come and board with us — won’t you 
now ?” 

Of course I promised, nothing loath, and nothing 
doubting, either, that out of such fine wages a “ lot ” 
could soon be bought, and a house put up, too, and 
all the rest of it. They were all much interested by 
the account of my adventures at Mrs. Johnson’s. 
The delinquency of Harry O’Hanlon in regard to the 


52 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


Fourth Commandment of the Church excited their 
warmest indignation, and all I could say in his favor 
afterwards was of no use, Patt declared energeti- 
cally that he wouldn’t trust his life in that fellow’s 
hands — no he wouldn’t. A man that wouldn’t stand 
up for his religion, or do what it commanded him, 
because there happened to be odds against him, de- 
served to be whipped at a cart-tail, Patt said. 

“ But they tell me it's very common here,” I ob- 
served in extenuation. 

“ Get out !” said Nancy with more zeal than polite- 
ness, “ what sort of an excuse is that ? I wish to 
the Lord some of them lads were at home in the ould 
country and do the likes of it — if it wouldn’t be dear 
pickin’ to them I’m not here. Why, they’d never 
get over the shame of it the longest day they’d have 
to live !” 

But if they were severe on O’Hanlon’s backsliding, 
my worthy friends were full of admiration for the 
generous liberality of John Parkinson, whom they 
expressively apostrophized as “ the broth of a 
boy.” 

“ And him an Englishman and a Prodestan’,” said 
Patt, “ and to take your part that way ; well, now 
see that. I’ll tell you what it is, Simy, you must 
bring that chap to see us some evening; I could 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


53 


divide my last mouthful with a fellow like him. Be- 
dad I could !” 

“ But where’s Billy ?” I said, looking round as I 
rose to go. This was their eldest son, whose absence 
I had not before noticed. 

“ Why, sure enough, we forgot to tell you,” said 
the father, “ the priest made us send him to a night- 
school, as he’s at his work all day. There’s one of 
the finest priests here, Simy, that ever stood at an 
altar. Nancy there was at Confession with him last 
Saturday was eight days, and she says he’s a saint if 
there’s one livin’. I mane to go myself a Saturday 
evenin’ if God spares me, for his reverence sent me 
word by Nancy that he’d he ever so glad to see me. 
But what was I talking about — oh ! the night-school 
— well ! Billy’s goin’ every evenin’ — barrin’ Sunday 
— and you wouldn’t b’lieve, Simy, how well he’s 
gettin’ on. His reverence said it was the pity of 
the world not to give him a chance of the lamin’.” 

This started a new idea in my head. If Billy 
Byrne, who was at much harder work than I, all day 
long, could go to a night-school, what was to hinder 
me from doing the same. A thirst for knowledge 
was one of my master-passions, and shared with am- 
bition the empire of my being. From my earliest 
boyhood I had been looking forward to some indefi- 
6 * 


54 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


nite period when I could gain access to the fountains 
of knowledge, and drink my fill of their mystic 
waters. If I ever was to rise in the world, I had an 
idea that it must be by knowledge and skill, not by 
labor. Here, then, was a golden opportunity held 
out to me, and I grasped it with an eager hand. 

Having ascertained from Patt where the school 
was to be found, I went straight thither, and made 
arrangements to commence my studies on the follow- 
ing evening. I had never thought of asking the 
Byrnes what the master’s religion was, but I soon 
found out that it was just what it ought to be. The 
teacher was a good, simple-hearted Kerry man, 
wholly unskilled in the world’s ways, but well versed 
in classical and other lore, both ancient and modern. 
He was a devout Christian, a protege of the excellent 
priest of whom Patt Byrne had told me, and the 
pedantry which formed his most striking character- 
istic was so very amusing, and at the same time so 
very inoffensive, that you could not help liking the 
old man even when he assumed the greatest sternness. 
You felt that far down under that thick layer of 
pedantry and that other thinner one of scholastic 
exactness, there was a world of truthfulness and 
genuine kindness, and that the quaint exterior of the 
pedagogue covered a heart attuned to the softest 


CONFESSIONS OP AN APOSTATE. 


65 


harmony. It was lucky for poor Philippus O’Sulli- 
van, as he chose to call himself, that his pupils were 
young men rather than boys. Had they been of an 
age for flogging, I verily believe the old man would 
have been the subject, they the masters, for his rule 
was simply no rule at all. The doctrine of “ moral 
’suasion ” was as yet unbroached in theory, but in 
practice it was identically that which my old master 
carried out in exemplary fidelity. Fortunately for 
his credit — for I confess I have no faith whatever in 
“ moral force ” as applied to urchins at school — ^he 
was saved the necessity of keeping a day-school by a 
certain little ofiice which his kind patron had pro- 
cured for him, and which occupied his time from nine 
till four every day. With us of more mature growth 
he was exceedingly popular, perhaps fully as much 
on account of his grotesque physique^ and the amuse- 
ment we derived from his quaint, old-fashioned ways, 
as the real good qualities which adorned his inner 
man. 

It so happened that Master Philippus took quite a 
fancy to my unworthy self, notwithstanding that I 
played more tricks on him than any other in the 
school. He saw that I was pursuing knowledge with 
all the fervor of my heart, and as he used to say in 
his own peculiar way : “ It does me good to see a 


66 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


well-endowed youth bending his head lovingly to 
drink of the Parian spring spoken of by that true 
and ever-to-be-remembered poet, Alexander Pope. 
Surely I esteem myself highly favored when an all- 
bountiful Providence permits me to hold the cup — 
that is to say, boys, to be made the humble instrument 
in replenishing your young minds with the fullness 
of that wisdom which proceeds not from books alone, 
but also from a close observance of men and things 
as we see them in this mundane sphere of ours — ” 

To what an extent poor Philippus had observed 
“ men,” the foregoing remarks will show ; but as for 
“ things ” he had certainly given them much atten- 
tion, and was no mean authority in the physical and 
exact sciences. There was one thing — yes, there 
were two things in which the old man excelled most 
men whom I had as yet known. These were inex- 
tinguishable love for his native land, and a child-like 
submission of his understanding to the teachings of 
religion. Like most Irishmen deserving of the name, 
he cherished the memory of the old land as some- 
thing inseparably connected with religion. With 
him, Ireland ought still to be the Island of Saints, 
and the national reputation was, I think, dearer to 
him than his own. It was a strange lot that had 
cast him over the great sea into the heart of that 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


57 


foreign city ; foreign indeed to him, forming a unit 
in the great numerical whole, but as distinct in his 
national and personal peculiarities as man could well 
be. His very walk on the street when you chanced 
— and it was a rare chance — to meet him abroad, told 
you that he was merely i/i, the community, not of it, 
for while multitudes hurried past him to and fro, 
intent on the visible world around them, he glided 
like a spectre through their midst, looking strangely 
grave in his long brown surtout closely buttoned to 
the chin, little heeding the human vortex whirling 
around him, but wrapt up in his own cogitations, and 
journeying, it might be, on the top of Parnassus, or, 
more likely still, through the storied passes of his 
own mountains far away in “ O’Sullivan’s Country.” 
He was a man of the past, that old Philippus, yet he 
was neither dry, nor cold, nor even insensible to the 
boyish ambition which lured us on up the steep path 
which leads to Science. Although caring little for 
the world himself, and despising in his heart all it 
has to offer, he certainly did his best to fit us, his 
pupils, for the several parts by it assigned us. 

Under Mr. O’Sullivan’s tuition, I made considera- 
ble progress in the several branches to which I ap- 
plied myself. By his advice I made grammar, arith- 
metic, and book-keeping my principal studies. I soon 


58 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


found my account in this, for Mr. Brown, my first 
employer, having himself taken the trouble to exam- 
ine me, and being satisfied with my capacity, ob- 
tained for me a good situation as clerk in another 
hardware establishment. This was another step in 
advance, and it was with a proud and exulting heart 
that I sat down to inform my mother of my good 
fortune. I had written home regularly every few 
weeks since my arrival in America, and in the an- 
swers which I duly received (elaborately penned and 
indited by no less a person than Master O’Grady him- 
self,) my poor mother never failed to express her 
satisfaction at the wonderful change that was taking 
place in the style and appearance of my letters. At 
first she could hardly believe that I wrote them my- 
self, and the neighbors were all of the same notion, 
she said ; but after a little, when I had really con- 
vinced both her and “ the neighbors,” her exultation 
knew no bounds. These letters from home gave 
much pleasure to Mr. O’Sullivan, whose kind heart 
rejoiced in the happiness which he felt was chiefly 
his own work ; but unluckily Patricius O’ Grady took 
it into his head to append to one of the long-winded 
epistles a postscript of self-laudation. He always 
knew, he said, that Pd come to something, for he 
gave me “ what you might call a good foundation.” 


COITFESSIOKS OF AN APOSTATE. 


59 


“ I’d like to know what it was, then,” said Philippus 
testily, “ I’m sure I had to dig it out, and lay every 
stone of it myself. He lay a foundation, the block- 
head ! That’s what he’ll never do, Simon, except it 
may be a foundation of stirabout in his own paunch 
Foundation, indeed I” 

It required all the little address I was master of 
to soothe the professional vanity of my worthy pre- 
ceptor, disturbed and irritated by the assertion of a 
ri\'al claim on the part of the obscure O’Grady. I 
could only succeed by a very unprincipled deprecia- 
tion of the attainments of that personage, together 
with an humble confession of the lamentable state of 
ignorance from which Philippus had drawn me forth. 
Many a good laugh O’Hanlon and I had over the 
harmless oddity of the worthy pedagogue, and even 
John Parkinson, bluff Englishman as he was, con- 
ceived a real regard for “ Old Phil,” as we were wont 
to call him. 

I could laugh then at the droll peculiarities of the 
good old man, but now I could weep to think that I 
did not honor him as he deserved, and that I did not 
imbibe some of that science which made him “ wise 
unto salvation,” when I drank in so eagerly, and in 
such copious draughts, that profane learning which, 
compared with the other, and wanting ?7, is worse 


60 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


than useless. But the past cannot now be recalled. 
My race of life is run, once for all, and the many 
false steps I made are never, never to be retrieved 
on earth. 

During the year and a half that I remained at Mrs. 
Johnson’s, O’Hanlon and I had many taunts and 
much ridicule to endure on the score of religion, and 
there were times when I almost wished that I was 
like the others, restrained by no ties of conscience 
from eating as I pleased at all times. It was hard, I 
used to think, that the Church should insist on that 
which made her children ridiculous in the eyes of 
others. Not that I felt it any privation to eat fish on 
Friday and Saturday — the good old custom was still 
“ second nature,” and I had no “ yearning for the 
flesh-pots ” of others. But I was painfully sensitive 
to the shafts of ridicule, even though despising those 
who launched them, and I never could get accustomed 
to the slang abuse so plentifully heaped on the relig- 
ion I professed. 

Each time that I went to confession, however, I 
got over this false shame for a few days, or perhaps a 
few weeks, but unfortunately it was only at Christ- 
mas and Easter that I went, and a specific applied at 
such long intervals could have little effect on the 
tenor of a life. Occasionally, to be sure, when I 


CONFESSIONS OP AN APOSTATE. 


61 


went to High Mass, I heard some discourse that 
affected me for the time, and brought back a portion 
of the old fervor that was as fast disappearing from 
my mind and heart as the rustic bashfulness and boy- 
ish simplicity were from my outward bearing. The 
corduroy breeches and Caroline hat, which had formed 
important items in my outfit, were long ago laid aside 
as unfit for the pave of Washington Street, and with 
them went by degrees many of the minor observances 
of religion, which, like them, I thought, were “ too 
Irish ” for a polished state of society. Still I was a 
Catholic in form, and to some extent in feeling. I 
generally contrived to put in a word in defence of 
my religion, too, whenever it was assailed in my pres- 
ence, especially if the assailant was an intimate ac- 
quaintance, or if the odds were not against me. 
Nothing would have hurt me more than to tell me 
that I was growing cold and indifferent in religious 
matters, or to hint that there was any possibility of 
my falling away from the faith of my fathers. 

Still I could not be insensible to the change that 
was coming over me. When, for instance, I received 
a letter from my mother (as all the family epistles 
were written in her name), I no longer received her 
maternal admonitions as I formerly, or even recently, 
had done. She would tell me in the inflated language 


62 


CONt'ilfiSSfOIifS els' Alf AI^OsTATti. 


of O’Grady ; “ Son of nly heart, 1 pray God night 
and morning that the dew of His holy grace may 
pour down its choicest blessings on you, and that 
your eyes may never go astray after the follies and 
vanities of that great city. Every day you rise keep 
God before your eyes, and never forget your morn- 
ing or evening prayers. I hope you’ll never leave off 
that blessed and holy scapular that I got you invested 
with before you went, and that you’ll have the beads 
always about you, so as to keep you from all 
harm.” 

These pious and affectionate injunctions used to 
bring the tears to my eyes for the first few months 
after I came to Boston, but now I glanced them impa- 
tiently over, with a fiushed cheek and a contemptu- 
ous curl of the lip. “ What a foolish old woman !” 
I muttered, half-ashamed to hear myself speak so of 
such a mother ; “ it is hard to say whether herself 
or her amanuensis is the greatest fool ! Beads in- 
deed ! I’d to see myself caught in Boston with a 
pair in my pocket. If I followed her advice to the 
letter, I’d soon be an old voteen myself.” 

Nevertheless, I took care to send her some money 
from time to time, and my letters were more affec- 
tionate than one would suppose from the callous 
state of indifference into which I was rapidly sink- 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


63 


ing. I laughed to myself, notwithstanding, as I 
thought of the 

“ fine beavers and fine silken gowns ** 

which I had held out to my poor mother as an in- 
ducement. 

“ What a figure she’d cut in a silk dress, poor old 
body !” I soliloquized ; “ sure it’s drugget or stuff 
that answers the like of her I forgot that my 
new-fashioned mode of reasoning only brought me to 
the same conclusion which my mother’s good sense 
had reached long before. Tranquil and content in 
her humble sphere, vanity and ambition were strang- 
ers to her bosom ; and when I, in my boyish folly, 
lost sight of the fact, she rebuked me with all the 
simple dignity of a true Christian. But at this time 
I was wholly incapable of appreciating the nobility 
of soul which raises the Christian above the puerile 
vanities of this vain world. 

About eighteen months after my arrival in Boston, 
I was left in a minority of one in Mrs. Johnson’s 
domicile. Harry O’Hanlon saw fit to take to himself 
a helpmate and “ went house-keeping,” to my great 
discomfiture, for now I feared the scoffs and jeers of 
my companions more, far more than I did at first. 

While I was looking forward with the most gloomy 


64 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


forebodings as to my future comfort in the house, an 
incident occurred which I could neither have foreseen 
nor expected, and which bettered my condition more 
than a little. 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


65 


CHAPTER IV. 

MES. JOHNSON ISSUES A MANIFESTO. 



IIE Friday, a week or two after O’Han 
Ion’s departure, one of our boarders, 
a self-conceited young “ down-easter,” 
was, as usual, making merry at my ex- 
pense in regard to my eating fish when 
I might have flesh. 

“ I guess you’ll find that mackerel 
rayther salt,” said he, “ suppose now 
you were to try this here roast beef. 
Can’t, eh? Well! that’s what I call 
rayther hard. Why, man, the priest won’t know 
anything about it, except you tell him, and I reckon 
you might leave that out when you go to confession 
— eh, Kerrigan ? will you be a man for once ?” 

“ To the mischief with that rusty mackerel,” cried 


66 


CONFESSIONS OP AN APOSTATE. 


another, “ I wouldn’t touch it with the tongs. Mrs. 
Johnson, it’s all along of you this nonsense of Kerri- 
gan’s ; if you didn’t put fish on the table he’d have 
to eat what he could get, and he’d thank you in the 
end, even if it annoyed him some at first. He’ll 
ruin his constitution eating fish two days in the week. 
He will indeed.” 

Mrs. Johnson’s grave countenance grew graver as 
she replied : “ I’d have you to know that I’ll hear no 
more of this. Let the young man eat what he has 
a mind to. It ain’t my way to meddle with such 
things, and, besides, I don’t know but what the Pa- 
pists are right and other folks wrong.” 

We all opened our eyes wide and fixed them on 
Mrs. Johnson’s face, which looked rather blue at the 
moment. One made an exclamation of surprise, an- 
other upset his “ tumbler,” and a third pushed back 
his chair with such angry force that one would sup- 
pose inwardly vowing never to eat again. For me, 
I could only gaze in speechless astonishment on the 
face at the head of the table and the two grey eyes 
that were peering curiously at us all through a pair of 
shell-mounted spectacles. 

“ I say they may be right,” repeated Mrs. Johnson 
very slowly ; “ I went last night to the Popish meet- 
ing-house, iown to Franklin street, to hear Bishop 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


67 


Cheverus, and, my stars ! I can’t keep from thinking 
ever since of what I heard him say. He’s a most 
uncommon wise man, and talks like a phophet — I 
think such words I never heard from the mouth of 
man, and I wouldn’t believe, if any one swore it, that 
a Popish priest could talk so. He was just a talking 
of folks fasting and denying themselves for Christ’s 
sake, and I tell you, he did make me feel wonderful 
queer. So says I to myself, ‘Rachel Johnson,.’ says 
I, ‘if you choose to go right straight on yourself 
eating the nicest things you can git hold of, don’t 
find fault any more with folks that are willing to deny 
themselves for conscience’ sake — and that’s jist what 
I mean to do, and I tell you I’ll have no one at my 
table that wonH do it. He’s a most uncommon lamed 
man that Bishop Cheverus, and I do believe that a 
man so good and so lamed, cannot be wrong. So I 
mean to tell our minister next time I see him.” Then 
addressing me she said, “Eat your dinner, Ker- 
rigan. No one shall meddle with your choice so 
long as you eat at my table. I opinionate that Pa- 
pists ain’t half so bad after all as folks make them out. 
I said so to Deacon Lowe on our way home last 
night, and the Deacon said that that ’ere Bishop 
Cheverus.i^'usn’^ a bad man, anyhow ! for he had had 
his eye on him most all the time since he’s bin in Bos- 


68 


CONFESSIONS OP AN APOSTATE. 


ton, and if he ain’t a real out-and-out good Christian 
he never saw one — that’s all he’d got to say.” 

The sneer had gradually vanished from every face 
as the blunt, earnest old woman thus delivered her- 
self. The whole city of Boston was at that time, as 
for years and years before, lost in admiration of the 
great and good man who had left his home and 
friends in the sunny land of France to labor amongst 
strangers in a foreign clime, and under sterner skies, 
for the extension of Christ’s Church. His virtues 
were on every tongue. His talents and accomplish- 
ments were the theme of general praise even amongst 
the fastidious and “ exclusive ” literati of the self- 
styled “ Athens of America.” Men and women of 
all creeds, and of no creed, thronged to hear him 
when he preached, and his resistless eloquence, 
strengthened and enforced by the purity of his life 
and the heroic virtues which all men can admire but 
few imitate, made a lasting impression on his hearers. 
Before his heaven-inspired reasoning the mists of 
prejudice cleared away, and men who merely went 
through curiosity to hear him were astounded to find 
themselves believing as he did before they left his 
presence. In him the majesty of religion, the domin- 
ion of virtue, were displayed to an incredulous world. 
That world seeing, was convinced, and if all were 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


69 


not converted, all were induced to think well of a 
religion which they had been taught to look upon as 
something diabolical.* 

The name of Bishop Cheverus, then, commanded 
the respect of the entire city, and the interest which 
every one felt in his affairs was truly remarkable. 
Even my messmates, indifferent as most of them 
were to all religion, had nothing to say against the 
good Bishop, and the mantle of his exalted reputa- 
tion served to shield my unworthy self for the time 
to come, from the wanton attacks of my sportive 
persecutors. My abstaining from flesh-meat on any 
particular day for conscience’ sake was something 
which they regarded as very funny, indeed, but when 
they heard of such abstinence being defended and 
justified by the great man whom all Boston looked 
upon as something beyond the ordinary race of mor- 
tals, it became quite a different thing, so that I never 
after had anything like the same amount of ridicule 
to encounter on that particular ordinance of religion. 

The esteem in which I saw the good Bishop held 
—even by the Protestant community — was a subject 

• In proof of this it may be mentioned, that, when this illua 
trious missionary was collecting funds to build the first Catholic 
Church ever put up in Boston, he was generously assisted by the 
wealthy Protestant inhabitants of that city. 


YO CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 

of salutary reflection to me.” “ Now,” said I to my- 
self, “ here am I almost ashamed of my religion on 
account of its being so difierent from others. I’m 
ashamed of going to confession, and try all I can to 
keep others from knowing it, though, God knows, it 
isn’t often I go ! I’m most ashamed of abstaining 
from meat when the Church commands it, and I 
wouldn’t bless myself before Protestants if I got all 
the silver in the Wicklow mines. Now that’s all for 
fear of the Protestants laughing at you — isn’t it, 
Simon Kerrigan? Well! just look at the Bishop. 
Isn’t he a good Catholic — every way you take him ? 
he’s never afraid or ashamed to do what the Church 
ordains — they say he’ll never even go to a party of 
any kind with them unless it’s some public occasion 
that he can’t get over — still, there’s ne’er a man in 
Boston — ne’er a one of their own ministers, may’be 
that they think so much of, or would go farther for. 
Think of that now, Simon ! and hold up your head 
like a man for the time to come I Sure if you had 
the of a man or an Irishman you wouldn’t be 

ashamed of the religion that St. Kevin and St. Patrick 
belonged to, not to speak of all the rest of the saints 
from St. Peter down — they used to bless themselves, 
and fast, ay faith ! and their fasting was no joke, for 
they kept it up most of the time, and hardly allowed 


OON^'ESStOiTS 05* At'OSTA'TJe. 


71 


tliemsel’^es etiongli to keep body and soul together. 
Keep all this in mind, Simon, my boy ! and it’s proud 
you’ll be of imitating the likes of them, and profess* 
Ing the faith that made saints of them 1’^ 

Buoyed up by such thoughts as these I had a spas- 
modic fit of religion, and while it lasted I considered 
myself quite chivalrous in manifesting my faith on 
every possible and impossible occasion. While under 
the influence of this temporary fervor, I was rather 
proud than otherwise of being the only one in the 
house who pretended to mortify the ancient Adam, 
and I actually had my hand up to my forehead to 
make the sign of the Cross one morning as we sat 
down to breakfast. Unluckily I caught John Parkin- 
son’s eye at the moment, and it seemed to me that it 
had a twinkle of fan in it, which I rightly attributed 
to the over-valorous action I was about to perpetrate. 
It is needless to say that the attempt was abortive ap 
far as the blessing went. Running the culprit hand 
through my hair as though that were the ultimate 
object with which it sought my brow, I drew up my 
collar with a peculiarly independent air, and looked 
very hard at the picture of a greyhound on the wall 
before me. All this did not save me from the lash 
of John Parkinson’s good-natured raillery. For 
many a day after he used to quiz me unmercifully 


72 


CONrESSIONS OP AN APOSTATE. 


about the blessing, especially the sheepish look I wore 
on the occasion. 

On the following Sunday evening I was walking 
with Parkinson and another young Protestant friend 
of mine, down by the wharves along the banks of 
the Charleston river, when who should we meet but 
Philippus O’Sullivan strolling leisurely along with 
hands crossed behind his back and head bowed down 
in abstracted musing. 

“ Smoke the old fellow ?” said Parkinson ; “ he 
looks as though we might poke some fun out of him, 
don’t he ?” 

“ Hush, hush !” said I, “ that’s my old master.” 

“ What, O’Sullivan ?” 

“ Exactly !” 

“ Better and better, I often wished to see the old 
codger, for Pve a sort of notion that he’s a queer 
customer. Hail him, Kerrigan ! for if you don’t he’ll 
pass without noticing you. Go it, Simon ! Pm just 
in want of something to make me laugh.” 

Thus urged, I accosted Philippus, who was as much 
surprised to see me as though I had suddenly been 
brought thither from the interior of Africa. I form- 
ally introduced my companions, and the old man re- 
turned their mock salute with a very low bow togeth- 
er with a very sincere expression of the pleasure he 


CONTESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


73 


felt in making their acquaintance. At our joint re- 
quest he turned hack with us. 

“ How has it come to pass, Simon,” said Mr. O’Sul- 
livan, “ that I have not seen you this last fortnight ? 
I fear your thirst for knowledge is beginning to 
slacken.” 

“ Oh ! not at all, master, it ain’t that, I assure you.” 

“ It am’^, eh ?” interrupted the worthy pedagogue, 
laying marked emphasis on the word ainH^ “ well if 
it ainH that, as you say, what are it ? — oh, Simon ! 
that I should hear you speak such grammar — did you, 
or did you not, ever learn the first rule of syntax ? 
Tell me that now !” 

Parkinson winked at Sharp, as much as to say: 
“ What did I tell you ?” and both made signs for me 
to continue the conversation which began so auspi- 
ciously for their hopes of “ fun.” 

“ Oh ! never mind syntax now,” I replied, affecting 
to be annoyed, “ there’s a time for all things. When 
I’m in school say what you like to me, but when I’m 
not in school, I don’t want to be drilled — I won’t 
have it, Mr. O’Sullivan, I tell you once for all.” 

The master looked aghast. lie evidently doubted 
his own ears. “ Tell me one thing, Simon ! did you 
hear what the Bishop said last Sunday at High Mass 
about the reverence due to age ?” 

7 


V4 CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 

“ I warn’t at High Mass last Sunday,” I returned 
snappishly, for I really began to feel somewhat net- 
tled. “ I never go to High Mass — it takes up too 
much of the one day we business-people have in the 
week — the only day we can call our own.” 

“ Well, Simon,” said the old man with a heavy 
sigh, “ the Bishop said — ” 

“ I don’t care a cent what he said,” snapped I 
again, determined to make a show of independence, 
especially as I saw my two companions smiling signifi- 
cantly at each other. 

“ A good evening, Mr. Kerrigan,” said Philippus, 
cutting me very short and speaking very drily, “ after 
that there’s no use talking to you. It’s only giving 
scandal we’d be to these worthy young men, and 
perhaps affording them a trifle of amusement into 
the bargain. It would be a great pleasure to me 
entirely to entertain them in any other way to the 
best of my poor abilities, and they’d be welcome to 
laugh at myself as long as they pleased, but in regard 
to religion it’s a different thing altogether. The 
man or woman doesn’t step in shoe leather that I’d 
allow to laugh at it or make little of it in my pres- 
ence without raising my humble voice against it. I 
wish you all a very good evening !” And with the 
same old-fashioned, rustic bow as before, my old 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


75 


master turned and walked slowly away with an air 
of offended dignity that made me laugh, although I 
felt exceedingly small, too. 

Neither Parkinson nor Sharp joined in the laugh 
which surprised me not a little. I made no remark, 
however, and we walked on a few yards in silence. 
Parkinson was the first to speak : 

“ I say, Kerrigan, I think you got the worst of it 
that time, didn’t you? Queer and all as he is, 1 
rather think the old man had you there — eh, Simon ?” 

“ Not he,’’ I returned, in direct contradiction to 
the voice of conscience which inwardly pronounced 
a decided affirmative, “ he’s nothing better than a 
meddlesome old fool. Pll be done with him from 
this out.” 

I was not to be done with him quite so soon as I 
expected. It might haA’e been some six weeks after, 
when I was sitting alone on one of the rustic seats 
on the Common, enjoying the rest which is always 
so sweet after a day of toil. The simset was gilding 
the fine old trees which give grace and beauty to the 
undulating surface of the Common, and refreshing 
shade to the morning and evening walks of the good 
old people of Boston. One of these umbrageous 
canopies provided by the considerate care of some 
by-gone City-Council ; now spread its gracious shade 


76 CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 

over my head, and I was dreamily lounging away 
the hour in the most perfect enjoyment of the dolce 
far niente^ when a well-known voice spoke at my 
side, and a heavy hand, an authoritative hand, was 
laid on my shoulder. The voice was that of Dominie 
O’Sullivan, and it is hardly necessary to say that his 
was the hand, too. I was not displeased at the ren- 
contre^ for, truth to tell, I had been thinking of home, 
and of days which I could not help admitting were, 
after all, the happiest I had yet known. I was think- 
ing of my good, pious, simple old mother, of the 
brothers and sisters from whom I knew myself de- 
tached more than I chose to acknowledge even to my 
own heart. With the family group came back to 
my memory the long-revered image of Father 
O’Byrne, whose simple, yet touching exhortations 
resounded through my heart in the silence of that 
evening hour. Though last, not least, in popped the 
somewhat grotesque physiognomy of Patricius O’Gra- 
dy, his lank form cased in frieze and corduroy, and 
the ferule in his hand looking particularly threaten- 
ing, yet I thought of the pedagogue then with un- 
wonted kindness, and the “ rule ” which used to 
make me “ wither away for fear,” was now nothing 
more than a characteristic “ accessory ” to the por- 
trait. It was just then that Philippus accosted me 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


11 


as before mentioned, and I was rather pleased than 
otherwise at the interruption. Assuredly there was 
scarce another individual in Boston so closely afflil- 
iated to the scenes and persons that occupied my 
mind, 

“ I got a letter from your mother, Simon,” said the 
old man after a few words of mutual inquiry had 
passed between us. 

“ You ! you got a letter from my mother !” I ex- 
claimed in surprise ; “ why, what does my mother 
know about you, or you about her. It’s very strange 
that she’d be writing to you /” 

I looked hard at the Dominie, and, through the 
assumed look of innocence which sat awkwardly 
enough on his honest old face, I detected a certain 
confusion which betrayed the secret of the letter. 
My mind instantly misgave me that he had been 
doing what I then considered mischief, although now 
I see the action in a far different light. I was angry, 
yet I strove to conceal my vexation, and asked very 
quietly if I might see the letter. 

No, he hadn’t it about him, he said, he forgot it at 
the house beyond. Indeed, he hadn’t the least idea 
that he’d meet me, when he went out for his even- 
ing walk on the Common. If he had, he’d surely 
have brought the letter. 

1 * 


78 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


“ What is it about ?” I asked rather sharply, being 
now confirmed in my suspicion. 

“ Well, most of it’s about you — of course — dear 
knows I don’t know what put it into your worthy 
mother’s head to write to me of all people.” He 
knew well enough, if he only chose to say so. I 
said it for him, however, and he neither denied nor 
admitted it, but went on as if he had not noticed 
what I said. 

“ It seems your mother — an excellent woman she 
is, too — has got it into her head that you’re not as 
attentive to your religious duties as you ought to be. 
She says you’re beginning to neglect her, and that 
that’s a sure sign that you’re neglecting your God.” 

“ Me neglect her ! why, the old woman’s raving, I 
guess. Didn’t I send her twenty dollars about a 
month ago, and that’s the last of sixty dollars I sent 
her altogether. Neglecting her, indeed ! I’d like to 
know what she expects from me !” 

“ I’ll tell you that, my good Simon ; she expects 
the same love and affection from you as when you 
were at home, and without that, she says, she doesn’t 
value all the money you’d send her. She’s poor 
enough, she says, but still not so poor but she caii do 
without your money, if your heart isn’t what it used 
to be towards her, and she’s a’most sure it is not 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


^9 


from the way you write to her. She’s in great trou- 
ble, too, about your soul, for fear it’s losing your 
faith you might be, or living in a state of sin.” 

These words cut me to the quick, for I felt that 
they were only what I deserved. I bitterly reproached 
myself for my ingratitude which now stared me in 
the face, and had I been alone I would have shed 
many a repentant tear for the pangs I well knew I 
had caused my widowed mother. But O’Sullivan 
was beside me, his shrewd, deep-set eye fixed full 
upon me as though it would read my thoughts. This 
scrutiny I considered as a downright insult, and 
starting angrily to my feet, I said in tones of sup- 
pressed rage : 

“ I’d thank you, Mr. O’Sullivan, to mind your own 
business for the time to come, and leave me to mind 
mine. I’m very little obliged to you for writing to 
my mother about my afiTairs, and I’m just as little 
obliged to her for making so free with my name to a 
stranger.” 

“ A stranger, Simon !” repeated the old man in a 
sorrowful tone ; “ am I a stranger to you, then ?” 

“ Yes, you are, and worse than any stranger. I’ll 
never speak a word to you again as long as I’m alive, 
unless my mind changes, and as for the foolish old 
woman that wrote such a blathering letter to you, 


80 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


I’ll touch her up for that same — never fear but I 
will! When she gets any more money from me, 
she may make medals of every dollar and give them 
round the country for charms. Tell her that you in 
your next epistle. Tell her, too, that I’m answerable 
to God for my own actions and not to her, so she 
needn’t bother her head about me. I know my duty 
better than she does — at least I hope so !” 

“ God help you for a poor foolish boy I” said Phil- 
ippus solemnly, “ and I’m afraid it’s worse than fool- 
ish you are if the truth was known. If there’s mercy 
for you, take my word it’ll be your mother’s prayers 
you may thank for it.” So saying he stalked away, 
and was soon lost in the dim perspective of the shady 
avenue, leaving me to digest his words at leisure. 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


81 


CHAPTER V. 



EANWHILE fortune continued to 
smile on me. Although slippery 
enough in regard to religion, I was 
both steady and assiduous in the dis- 
charge. of my duty to my employers. 
The consequence was that I enjoyed 
their fullest confidence, and had my 
w’ages raised considerably at the expi- 
ration of the first year. Far different 
were the fortunes of poor Patt Byrne. 
A short time after my rupture with 
O’Sullivan I received a message from 
Patt requesting me to go to see, as he had got a 
hurt some weeks before that confined him to his bed 
ever since. 

I started or hearing this, and a burning blush suf- 


82 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APO& fAX: 


fused my cheek. I had for the last six months en- 
tirely lost sight of the Byrnes, whom I looked upon 
as no desirable acquaintances, inasmuch as they were 
too old-fashioned in their tastes and habits for my 
greatly-refined ideas. Patt was a laborer, too^ and 
so was his son Tommy, and as I had got at least two 
steps higher than that, it was wholly impossible, in 
fact a thing not to be expected, that I should continue 
on the same terms with them. This conclusion was 
forced on me by what I considered a very untoward 
circumstance. I was one day going along Summer 
street, on some business for my employers, dressed 
in a very stylish “ business-suit ” of fine gray summer 
cloth, and thought I was looking remarkably well, 
whereat I was mightily pleased, for who should I meet 
on turning a corner but the charming Miss Pringle, 
a very stylish young lady, whose acquaintance I had 
made at a public ball. Now Miss Pringle had the 
honor of being forewoman to a French milliner in 
Washington street, and it was commonly believed 
that her old father, who had lived and died some- 
where “ away down East,” had left her some hun- 
dreds of dollars. This, of course, gave additional 
attractions to a face and figure that were sufficiently 
attractive of themselves. I was particularly pleased, 
then, to meet Miss Pringle just when I was conscious 


CONFESSIONS OP AN APOSTATE. 


83 


of being Avell dressed, and, indeed. Miss Pringle 
seemed just as glad to meet me,’ I suppose for the 
same reason, for she, too, was sporting her first crapes, 
and had the consoling testimony of her mirror at 
home that she looked not only lovely, but divine, in 
her exceedingly deep mourning. In my delight at 
seeing so welcome a sight that fine summer morning 
I had paid little attention to the fact that some men 
were Avorking in a trench close by the sidewalk, Avhere 
certain repairs were being made on the Avater-pipes. 
Who, then, can conceive my mortification and em- 
barrassment, when, just as the young lady and my- 
self had exchanged what we both thought a very 
polite salutation, a rough voice from the neighboring 
trench called out my name, with a “ Bad-manners to 
you, Simy ! is that you 

I hardly kneAV which end of me was uppermost, so 
great was my confusion. The voice was that of Patt 
Byrne, and I must confess I could freely have per- 
formed that operation on his tongue which is said to 
give magpies the power of speech. 

Without answering Patt’s impudent inquiry as to 
my identity, I stole a look at Miss Pringle, who, in 
her turn, cast a penetrating glance at me. 

“ Good gracious, Mr. Kerrigan ! are you Irish 
she asked, in a low voice, not so low, however, but 
Patt Byrne heard her. 


84 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


“ Is he Irish ?” said he, popping his head up from 
the excavation. “ ’Deed, it’s himself that is, and a 
dacent father and mother’s child he is, too. It’s my- 
self that knows that well, for I seen him w’hen he was 
little worth. When did you hear from the old wo- 
man, Simy ?” 

Muttering some indistinct reply, I nodded to Miss 
Pringle and walked on, annoyed by the contemptu- 
ous smile on her pretty face. 

“ Who’d have thought it !” she softly whispered, 
as I passed her by. 

“ Why, then, what in the world’s got into that 
boy ?” said Patt Byrne to his companion in the work 
of excavation, as he dived again under ground. 
Neither observation was lost on me, and I felt hum- 
bled, and could hardly tell why. The truth was, I 
had lost the good opinion of the fair Miss Pringle, 
who, I well knew, could never get over my being on 
such intimate terms with an Irish laborer, who cer- 
tainly looked anything but “ respectable ” in his clay- 
soiled working clothes ; as for Patt, I was probably 
done with his friendship, too, but of course that was 
of infinitely less importance. 

I made several attempts to regain my place in Miss 
Pringle’s favor, but all in vain, she ever after treated 
me with cool contempt as a person whom she did not 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


85 


or could not, recognize. The idea of ever again asso- 
ciating on equal terms with Patt Byrne and his family 
was too absurd to be entertained for a moment, and 
hence it was that I had cut the connection in toto. 

Still, when I heard of Patt’s misfortune, I re- 
proached myself for having so long kept aloof from 
him and his, especially when I thought of the happy 
escape I had had from pretty Fan Pringle, who, a 
short time after my unlucky meeting with her on the 
street, had given her fair hand to a certain young 
master-tailor, who, on his part, got wofully bitten, 
for instead of receiving four or five hundred dollars 
wuth his “ bonny bride,” he had to pay a round hun- 
dred which she owed to the French milliner before 
mentioned. 

It was with a feeling bordering on shame that I 
ascended the stairs to Patt Byrne’s rooms, and my 
heart sank within me when I saw the condition to 
which the family were reduced in so short a time. 
Patt was sitting on a low chair with his right leg 
bandaged up and stretched on a stool before him. 
His face was ghastly pale and his eyes sunk far into 
their sockets. So great indeed was the change in 
his appearance that anywhere else I might have 
passed him by without knowing him. His wife, too, 
had lost the freshness of color which was hers by 


8 


C0NPESS102TS OF AK APOSTATE. 


nature, and the Irish rose bloomed no longer on the 
chubby faces of the children. In short, they all 
seemed drooping and Woe-begone, even the little 
rugged terrier, that had been so brisk and watchful, 
now hung his head as it were in hopeless melan- 
choly, nor noticed my entrance except by a listless 
stare. I glanced my eyes around as I crossed the 
threshold, the family were all there except Tommy, 
whom I naturally concluded was at his work, and I 
mentally exclaimed “ it’s well they have him to earn 
for them.” 

My entrance was the signal for a burst of weeping 
from Nancy Byrne, and Patt himself, as he reached 
his hand to me, could hardly keep in his tears. I 
endeavored to console them as well as I could, and 
then asked how all this happened without my hear- 
ing a word of it. 

“ Ay ! you may well ask that, Simy !” said Patt 
Byrne reproachfully ; “ we might be all dead it seems 
without your knowin’ or carin’. God knows, then, 
if a less thing ailed you, it’s in sore trouble we’d be 
about you, all of us.” 

I felt the truth of this, and, for a moment, could 
frame no answer. At last I ventured on some words 
of consolation. I had ascertained that Patt had 
broken his leg by a fall, and I muttered something 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


87 


about tbe trials that some people had to undergo in 
this world. “ But after all,” said I, “ sure there’s 
nothing bad but it might be worse. Things are bad 
enough with you now, it’s true, but how would it be 
if you hadn’t Tommy earning for you — then you 
might cry in earnest !” 

This brought a torrent of tears from Nancy, and 
even Patt’s eyes ran over, as he fixed them on me, 
“ Ah, then, Simon Kerrigan !” said he in a voice that 
was hardly audible, “ is that all you know about it ?” 

“ About what ?” I asked, with a sinking heart, t 

“ Why, about our heavy sorrow — an’ och ! och ! 
but that’s what it is !” 

• “ If it’s the broken leg you mean, I know all 
about that, sure you told me yourself since I came 
in!” 

“ Oh worra said poor Patt, “ if it was only that, 
I wouldn’t regard it a pinch of snufiT, God sees I 
wouldn’t.” 

“ Well, and what is it ?” I asked, impatiently. 

“We lost poor Tommy, Simy, — ” Patt’s voice 
failed him, and he covered his face with his hands, 
while a chorus of wailing arose from the mother and 
children. The blow unmanned myself, for I was 
altogether unprepared for such dismal tidings, and 
besides I really felt heart-sorry for the poor lad, who 


88 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE, 


was a fine, athletic, promising young fellow, with all 
his father’s good nature, and with no small share of 
drollery in his composition. I knew not what to 
say, even after I recovered the use of my speech, 
and I can hardly tell what I did or what I said. I 
did not dare to ask questions, every one of which 
would have been a stab for each heart- wrung parent, 
and I felt that consolation was beyond my power to 
give. As well as I can remember I took Patt’s hand 
in silence and squeezed it very hard, and then going 
over to Nancy I did the same to her, while the tears 
that streamed down my cheeks evinced the sincerity 
of my sympathy. 

After a little, when grief had exhausted itself in * 
tears, the husband and wife dried their eyes, and 
appeared comparatively calm. 

“ God bless you, Simy !”. said Patt with touching 
fervor, “ may you never have to bear such a load of 
sorrow as that poor woman and myself have on our 
hearts this day. Yis, Simy, we have lost the best 
son ever poor people had, a boy that wouldn’t take a 
shillin’ out of his week’s wages ’till he’d bring it 
home an’ put it in his mother’s hand, an’ if she’d 
give him back a quarter or so, he’d be as thankful, 
my poor boy ! as if it wasn’t his own hard earnin’.” 

“ True for you, Patt dear, true for you — oh ! Lord 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 89 

look on US this sorrowful day !” This touching ex- 
clamation from the bereaved mother went to my 
very heart — it spoke such a world of unutterable 
woe. 

It was some time before I discovered how poor 
Tommy met his death. He had taken a heavy cold 
which settled on his lungs, and finally turned to 
inflammation, which carried him ofi* in a few days. 
He had been taken to the hospital for medical assist- 
ance, and there he died. About six weeks after, his 
father fell from a ladder and broke his leg, and the 
long illness which followed had exhausted the little 
hoard so carefully preserved as the beginning of a 
fortune. 

“ So here we are, you see,” said poor Byrne, in 
conclusion, with an attempt at cheerfulness that made 
my heart ache ; “ here we are, Simy, as poor, ay ! 
and poorer than when we landed ; we were layin’ 
out great things for ourselves, God help us ! the very 
last time you were here, but see how diflerent things 
have turned out ; well, I suppose we must be con- 
tent, whatever comes — only it was God’s will it 
wouldn’t have come across us, that’s all the comfort 
we have, sure.” 

“ But how in the world do you make out to live, 
Patt ?” 


8 * 


90 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


“ Well ! myself could hardly tell you that — there’s 
none of these childer able to do much for us yet, 
though they’re willin’ enough, poor things ! if they 
had the ability — ” 

“ You’re forgettin’ me^ father I” said the second 
son, Johnny, a lad of some fourteen years or so, and 
he stretched up his little thick-set form to its highest ; 
“ don’t you know I’m able to work if I can only get 
something to do.” 

“ Dear help you, poor fellow !” ejaculated the fond 
mother, “ it’s little you can do, I’m afeard.” 

“ I’ll soon let you see what I can do,” said Johnny, 
with quite a mortified air, “ if Simon will only try 
and get me in somewhere or other.” 

“ That’s just what I wanted to see you for, Simon,” 
said Patt, as he stooped to move the disabled member 
with both hands ; “ I know there’s a good many 
people employed where you are, and we were think- 
in’, Nancy and myself, that maybe you’d try to get 
him in. If there’s no place there for him, maybe 
you’d know somebody that would give him work for 
God’s sake.” 

I smiled sadly at this. “ If they don’t employ 
him for the sake of his broad little shoulders, Patt, 
they’ll hardly do it for God’s sake. I’m afraid there’s 
no vacancy for the like of him about our place, but 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


91 


I’ll see what can be done. I’ll come back soon, 
at any rate, with something better than words.” 

Blessings were heaped on me to no end, and I was 
hurrying away with a view to cut them short, when 
on the narrow and somewhat rickety stairs I encoun- 
tered a person who, notwithstanding the bundle 
under his arm, I had no difficulty in recognizing as 
the great and good Bishop of Boston. I stepped 
back to the landing to let him pass, and he acknow- 
ledged the act by a salute as courteous as if I had 
been an emperor. I saw he was perfectly familiar 
with the place, and knew well where he was going, 
for he went straight to Patt Byrne’s door, although 
several other dwellings opened on the same passage. 
The contents of the clumsy parcel which he carried 
were not known to me till my next visit to the 
Byrnes, but I felt that his errand was one of mercy, 
for Bishop Cheverus was the good Samaritan who, 
ubiquitous in his exhaustless charity, was found pour- 
ing oil on every wound, and ministering in whatever 
way he could to the wants and woes of his people.* 

I afterwards found that his bundle contained 

* It is related in the life of this most worthy prelate that he 
was very often seen carrying wood up several flights of stairs, 
to poor, destitute persons, and performing for the sick and infirm 
the most menial offices. 


92 


COKFESSIONS OP AN APOSTATE. 


clothes which he had begged for Johnny, in order to 
fit him out for a situation. I had heard a great deal, 
even from Protestants, of the good Bishop’s charity, 
but somehow the more I heard it talked of the less I 
thought about it. The thing had become as natural 
as life, and it seemed a matter of course for every 
one to talk about the acts of Bishop Cheverus. 
Now that I saw him with my own eyes in the exer- 
cise of his benign mission, my heart swelled within 
me ; I felt that such a man was, indeed, “ little less 
than the angels,” and as far exalted above the aver- 
age run of mankind as heaven is above the earth. 

The sight of such God-like self-devotion brought me 
back to a sense of what the world owes to religion, 
and went far to revive the half-forgotten fervor of 
my early years. “ Well, after all,” reasoned I with 
myself, “ it would be a poor world without religion. 
They may make fun of pious people as much as they 
please, but when sickness or poverty comes across, 
it’s them that are always ready to lend a hand. Some 
will have it that religion is only a sham — maybe it is 
with some, but not with all. I’ll go bail. Here’s the 
Bishop now — doesn’t he do the same thing every 
day of his life that we read of the Saints doing in 
old times. And, signs on him ! there’s not man, wo- 
man, or child in Boston that doesn’t love the ground 


COKFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


93 


he walks on. Well, it’s a folly to talk, now, I must 
stir up, this sort of a dead-and-alive way that I’m in 
will never do. Please God, I’ll go to my duty on 
Saturday next, and I’ll write to my mother on Sun- 
day, and I’ll go to see poor O’Sullivan. I wonder 
how he’s getting on !” 

This frame of mind continued all that week, and I 
actually performed all I had promised. I bought a 
barrel of flour for Patt Byrne, and having heard of a 
situation that I thought might suit Johnny, I went to 
let them know ; but found that the Bishop had been 
beforehand with me. He had himself got employ- 
ment for the lad, to commence on the following Mon- 
day. This was a drop of joy in the cup of grief, 
but it hardly served to sweeten it. Dark, and dull, 
and heavy was the load of sorrow that weighed 
ddwn the hearts of Patt Byrne and Nancy ; and, as 
they afterwards told me, there were times when they 
were tempted to curse the day that saw them leave 
their native land, where they might still have had 
their son. But these thoughts were speedily re- 
pressed, the one rebuking the other for giving utter- 
ance to them : “ Sure, didn’t they know well enough, 
both of them, that their poor boy’s hour was come, 
and he’d die all the same if he had been at home in 
the corner with his granny in Derrylavery. I’ll war- 


94 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


rant,” said i^’ancy ; “ they heard the banshee this 
time past about the ould place, for there’s never one 
belongin’ to the Shanaghans that dies but she cries 
them for weeks before. Och ! och ! it’s little notion 
they’d have that it was our Tommy beyant in America 
she was cryin’.” 

Patt’s leg, however, was rapidly improving, and 
that was about the greatest consolation they could 
all have, under the circumstances. In a couple of 
weeks he was able to go back to his work; Nancy 
and the children all watching his first departure from 
the door with as much pride and satisfaction as if he 
“ walked in silk attire,” and “ siller had to spare,” 
neither of which was poor Patt’s case. 

On the Sunday I wrote to my mother, and I think 
she never got a letter from me so consoling to her 
heart, for I felt as though it was but the day before 
I had left her, and “ the kind old friendly feelings ” 
came gushing out from my heart of hearts. I told 
my mother how very careless I had been about relig- 
ion — I told her very frankly ; but assured her that 
for the time to come I was going to turn over a new 
leaf. I forgot to say, or even to think, “ with God’s 
assistance,” and so, like boastful Peter, I fell, but 
unlike him, my fall w^as a fatal one. 

Having finished my letter on that auspicious Sun- 


CONFESSIONS OP AN APOSTATE^ 


95 


day afternoon, I went to pay my intended visit to 
Philippus O’Sullivan. The old man’s reception of 
me was kind as heart could wish ; but I saw with 
pain that he could not speak to me freely and openly 
as of old. He tried hard to appear the same, but the 
effort was too visible, and only made both of us un- 
comfortable. There was little of the sarcastic in the 
old man’s composition, and yet he gave me more 
than one severe cut during the hour that I staid with 
him. I had been telling him of what the Bishop had 
done for the Byrnes, winding up with a very sincere 
expression of admiration for his saintly virtues. 

“ Yes,” said Philippus, elevating his eyebrows, and 
fetching a half sigh ; “ yes, he’s a very worthy man, 
they say — indeed, a God-fearing man, too — but, like 
myself, he belongs to the old school — neither him nor 
me has any great push in us as regards things mun- 
dane—” 

I could not but feel that this was meant for me, 
and I winced under the sting ; but yet I could not 
for my life help laughing when I looked at O’Sullivan 
and heard him associate his own name and fame with 
those .of the eminent prelate, who might well be 
called the Fenelon of America. I thought the old 
fellow was serious, but not he indeed, for when I 
burst out laughing, he laughed, too, in his own dry, 


96 


X30NFESSI0NS OF AN APOSTATE. 


unmusical way, then took out his box, gave it the 
professional tap, and handed it to me. 

“ Simon,” said he, as I stood up to go, “ Tve a 
crow to pluck with you.” 

“ So I thought, sir,” I replied ; “ what is it ? if it’s 
about what happened down at the water-side that 
Sunday, you needn’t say a word. There’s no one 
sorrier for that than I am.” 

“ It isn’t that, Simon ; I wish there was nothing 
worse than that. I’m told you’re keeping company 
with a Protestant girl. I’d like to know if it’s true.” 

“ Well, it is not true — at the present time.” 

“ Thank God for that, anyhow — all’s well till that 
comes, Simon !” 

“ It’ll never come, Mr. O’Sullivan !” I replied, in 
all sincerity. 

“ God grant it !” said Philippus earnestly, as he 
wrung my hand at parting. I went home in high 
spirits, rejoicing in the declaration I had just made, 
as if it were a point gained over the enemy of souls. 


COI?TESSIONS OP AN APOSTATE. 


97 


CHAPTER VI. 



WILL pass over the next four years of 
my life as being comparatively void of 
interest for the reader. During that 
time I had been gradually casting my 


shell, that is to say, the incrustation 


of superstition (as I learned to call 
the pastoral simplicity of my early 
life), which the teaching and example 
of credulous parents had formed on 
every faculty of my being ; impeding 
the action of my natural intelligence, 
which I now discovered to be “of 
prime quality.” This was the light in 


which I viewed the hideous skepticism that was fast 
taking root in my mind, growing up in rank luxuri- 
ance amongst the virtues that were spontaneous there. 
This baneful exotic threw its dark shade over the 


9 


98 


CONFISSSIOITS OF AN APOSTATE. 


fairest and brightest regions of my soul. I had long 
ago left off the practice of confession as something 
altogether too absurd for a young man of my preten- 
sions. I still went to Mass occasionally — not, how- 
ever, to High Mass, for I had no notion of being 
bored with tiresome sermons, and the Sundays were 
all too short for amusement. I had cut off all con- 
nection with the Byrnes, and poor Philippus O’Sulli- 
van had been gathered — not to his fathers — but to 
the bosom of his mother earth. When he “ shuffled 
off this mortal coil,” it was a great relief to me, for 
he had dogged my steps in a way that fretted and 
annoyed me. He had even set the Bishop on me 
one time when I had grown more than usually care- 
less about religion ; and although I yielded to the 
good prelate’s affectionate remonstrances, and for 
fully a year attended High Mass regularly, still I had 
a grudge at O’Sullivan for meddling in my spiritual 
affairs. I might never have discovered his transgres- 
sion but for his own childish garrulity, and the 
secret did come out so artlessly, by way of a boast, 
that, with all my irritation, I could not help laughing 
heartily. That was but a year or so before the final 
summons came to poor Philippus, and when it did 
come, shame to say, I was not sorry. I never said 
a prayer more devoutly in my life than the “ Rest 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


99 


his soul !” which escaped my lips when I first heard 
of his death. As I followed his funeral to the re- 
mote corner of the cemetery to which his poverty 
consigned him, I was sensible of the same relief 
wdiich a man would feel after getting rid of a heavy 
burthen which he had been forced to carry a long 
and tedious way. My mother was too far away to 
be much of a restraint on me — her advices and 
admonitions, seen only by myself, and then committed 
to the flames, were nothing more than a source of 
amusement, and I could really afibrd to laugh at the 
zeal Avhich kept the old woman eternally fiddling, 
like Paganini, on the one string. The case was far 
different with O’Sullivan, who, as it were, at the door 
w ith me, had his eyes ever on my motions, at least I 
felt as though he had. The pertinacity with which 
he interested himself in my affairs, do as I would, or 
say as I would, w^as something altogether intolerable, 
and 'the sense of his continual surveillance haunted me 
like a spirit. The all-seeing eye of Providence had 
lost somewhat of its terrors for me, and I could sin 
with almost as much composure as though I had 
never feared its scrutiny. Not so the eye of O’Sulli- 
van, that living, speaking organ which told me, when 
we met, as plain as any words could do, that I was 
diverging from the way of life. It may well be sup- 


100 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


posed, then, that the day of O’Sullivan’s death was 
then set down as a bright spot in my life. It was 
so ; and I revelled in my sense of freedom like a bird 
escaped from a cage. 

Now that I can see men and things in their connec- 
tion with the unseen world, my ancient master stands 
before me in a different light, and his grotesque form 
is enshrined within my heart as the casket that con- 
tained a Christian soul, sublime in its humble virtues, 
many of which were known but “ to the Father who 
seeth in secret.” 

With the Philomath banished the last remaining 
link that bound my aspiring soul to the lowliness of 
earlier life. As I stood by his lonely grave for a few 
moments’ thought, when all but me were gone, I said 
within myself, “ Now, Simon, you have just closed a 
volume of your memoirs — you are free now to make 
a start, and you can’t but know that you have a glori- 
ous opportunity. Throw aside at once and for ever 
the narrow bigotry which was all the inheritance left 
you by your so-called ‘ pious ancestors ’ — they made 
precious little of their piety as far as this world goes, 
and, for that matter, I don’t see that God ever willed 
a whole people to remain for ages in the depths of 
poverty — so I fear, Simon ! that the talk about being 
* ‘ a chosen people ’ and so on is all moonshine — the 


CONFESSIONS OF \N APOSTATE. 


101 


fact is, .those ‘ pious forefathers ’ of yours were at all 
times behind the age, and had no more idea of getting 
along than — than that headstone there which expres- 
ses such a deal of filial devotion on the part of some 
excellent son. (Hope he didn’t die himself of grief) 
Keep the faith still, Simon, as, of course, you’re 
bound to do, through thick and thin, but cast off as 
fast as ever you can the trammels of superstition ; 
be a Catholic heart and soul, but a Catholic such as 
becomes this free and enlightened country. Courage 
now, Simon Kerrigan — ah-h-h !” what was it that 
caused that sudden twitch ! my name, good reader, 
only my name. I had very soon found out after I 
came to Boston that the name which, with my relig- 
ion, I inherited from my parents, was exceedingly 
vulgar, and had “ such a common sound with it ” 
that, as I used to say to myself, it proved beyond all 
doubt the plebeian origin which I would fain conceal 
from all the world. It makes me smile now to think 
of all the trouble that unlucky name gave me, especi- 
ally when it smote my ear in an introduction. I 
always fancied that my acquaintances took a malici- 
ous pleasure in repeating the name oftener than was 
at all necessary, and on their foreign tongues it 
sounded so harshly, so uncouthly, that I thought 
there never was such a mean name. My cogitations 


102 


CONFESSIONS OP AN APOSTATE. 


at length ended, and the night at hand — -a dark, 
cheerless night, too — I made a precipitate retreat 
from a place which, of all others, had the least possi- 
ble attractions for me. 

It might have been some nine months after the 
death of my old master, that I one day overheard a 
conversation between Mr. Brown, the head of our 
firm, and a merchant from New Haven, who was 
one of our best country customers ever since I had 
been in the establishment, and, perhaps, long before 
it. This conversation, I could not, even at the mo- 
ment, but apply to myself, and I soon found my 
surprise correct. 

“ I should be sorry to deprive you of him,” said 
the New Haven gentleman, w^hose name was Samuels, 
“ in case it put you to any very great inconve- 
nience.” 

“ Oh, not at all, I assure you,” broke in Mr. 
Brown, eager to oblige so good a customer, “ not at 
all — we have so many here — in fact, too many for 
our present requirements — but even if it be a trifling 
sacrifice on our part, it will give us the greatest 
pleasure, inasmuch as it affords us an opportunity of 
showing the interest we take in your affairs. Besides, 
we here in Boston can more easily provide a substi- 
tute, than you in New Haven. There is one thing, 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


103 


however, concerning this young man which I think 
you ought to know.” 

I could see from where I was that Mr. Brown 
looked grave, and Mr. Samuels elevated his spectacles 
so as to peer inquiringly into his friend’s face with 
his own visual orbs. 

“ And 'what may that be ?” he inquired anxiously. 
“No bad habit, eh ? nothing against his moral 
character, I trust.” 

“ Well ! not exactly — but still you may think it 
bad enough. The young man is a Papist.” 

“ A Papist ! you dorCt say so, Mr. Brown !” 

“ But I do say so, Mr. Samuels !” 

“ Well ! you really surprise me — you do — ^how did 
you come to employ him ?” 

“We took him at the request of a friend in whose 
employment he had been as porter, and I must say 
we have never had any serious fault to find with him. 
Neither will you, I am persuaded. Even though he 
is a Catholic he really does get along well. The 
offensive tenets of that religion — ” 

“Re-lig-ion, Mr. Brown! say, rather, supersti- 
tion !” 

“ Well ! be it so — the offensive tenets of that 
hideous superstition he keeps to himself admirably 
well, I assure you — so that you would scarce know 


104 


CONFESSIONS OF AN AFOSTATE. 


he wore its fetters, if you didn’t find it out some 
other way.” 

“ Then you think I might venture to take him ?” 
queried Samuels, slowly ; “ it would he, I know, con- 
siderable of a risk, for I never had anything to do 
with one of those people, an I hadn’t got any faith in 
them. Still I rather like this young man — he has a 
real good method of doing business, and I do want a 
smart, active young man very bad — very bad, in- 
deed ! You say he keeps it all to himself — I mean 
the grosser features of the superstition.” 

“ Certainly !” 

“ Um ! aw ! it is most unfortunate — just what I 
least expected — ^but still my need is pressing. I think 
I shall try him, Mr. Brown !” 

“Yerygood, sir! just walk into the warehouse, 
where you will, I believe, find him. I will leave you 
to talk the matter over between yourselves. If it 
were any other but yourself, Mr. Samuels, it would 
go hard on us to part with him, but to you, as I have 
said, we are quite willing to transfer our rights over 
the property — ^ha ! ha ! ha !” 

Mr. Samuels soon after came to me in the ware- 
house, and, after some preliminary chat, during which 
he was evidently “ beating about the bush,” he darted 
right into the subject, and made his proposal in due 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


105 


form. I affected to be much surprised, and expressed 
considerable reluctance to leave my present employ- 
ers. In this I was quite sincere, for I had been, on 
the whole, well treated by them, and had no reason, 
therefore, to be dissatisfied. My objections were 
easily overruled, for Mr. Samuels, after some parley, 
offered me such a tempting salary that I couldn’t 
longer think of refusing his offer, and I agreed to go 
to New Haven early in the following week, (my en- 
gagement was weekly at Brown & Steensons.) 

I was surprised that the New Englander made no 
allusion to the obnoxious nature of my religious 
“ opinions,” but he was only leaving that point for the 
last. Just as he took up his broad-brimmed hat to re- 
tire, he fetched an asthmatic “ hem !” and approach- 
ing quite close to me, said in a hesitating sort of tone, 
“ Mr. Brown tells me — what indeed I did not expect 
to hear — ahem ! — that you are a — a — Catholic !” 

“ I am, sir — but what of that ?” 

“ Oh nothing — nothing at all — I hope we shall get 
along together as though you warn’t — but — but — it 
would ruin the business if I were known to have a 
partner of your persuasion. You have no idea how 
Papists are disliked down our way. You han’t 
indeed ! Can’t you oblige me now by making no 
one the wiser as to what you are ?” 


106 


CONFESSIONS OP AN APOSTATE. 


“ But, sir !” I said with a smile, “ it will be useless 
for me keeping the secret so long as I am seen attend- 
ing the Catholic Church. The murder will out, you 
see.” 

“ Oh ! if it’s only that, of course I ain’t afraid, 
because, you see, we haven’t got any Popish meeting- 
house within many a mile of us. You must pray at 
home, Mr. Kerrigan — ha ! ha ! only promise to say 
nothing about what you are, and we shall get on 
swimmingly. I won’t mind if you do say Mass in 
your own room once in a while, or count over your 
beads, or anything of that kind. Oh, no ! Mr. Ker- 
rigan, you will find me a very tolerant man — very 
tolerant, I assure you ! no matter how mistaken oth- 
ers may be in their religious view's, I can make all 
allowance — I can, indeed, Mr. Kerrigan !” 

Though much amused at the good man’s idea of 
“ saying Mass,’’ I thought any attempt at enlighten* 
ing him would be so much labor lost ; I, therefore, 
thanked him for his promised stretch of liberality, 
and prepared with a hopeful heart, and with the 
pleasurable excitement which young people always 
feel when about to “ visit parts unknowm,” to enter 
upon my new situation. 

I bade farewell to Boston with little regret. Few 
ties of friendship had I there to make my departure 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


107 


painful. John Parkinson had gone to ^^'ew York to 
live some three years before, and I had quarrelled 
Tvith O’Hanlon soon after his marriage, on account 
of a biting sarcasm levelled at my religious indiffer- 
ence one evening by his wife, who was a fervent 
Catholic, much more fervent indeed than Harry. I 
thought O’Hanlon ought to have taken sides with 
me, whereas he did not ; but, on the contrary, seemed 
to enjoy my confusion. I was too proud to appear 
to take any notice of the affair at the time, but I 
never could endure Mrs. O’Hanlon after, and my 
warm friendship for Harry became suddenly icy cold. 
It was the last evening I ever spent at their lodgings, 
w^here I had spent many a pleasant one before. With 
the O’Hanlons went my last chance of Catholic so- 
ciety. Never again did I form an intimate connec- 
tion with any Catholic, male or female, for even if I 
were inclined to do so, I had no opportunity in the 
new and strange position to which Providence — shall 
I say Providence ? — assigned me. 

For some weeks after my arrival in New Haven all 
was strange, and dull, and cheerless to me. Even now, 
after the lapse of some five-and-thirty or forty years,* 
the State of Connecticut is, perhaps, the most Puri- 
tanical in the Union, and consequently the most op- 

* We are to suppose that this was somewhere about 1860. 


108 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


posed to the general and enlivening spirit of Catho- 
licity. What must it have been, then, at the time 
when I took up my abode in the family of Deacon 
Samuels, for such was the spiritual office of my new 
employer. A ruler in Israel, an ancient of the people 
was he, grave and melancholic in temperament, yet 
upright and honest in his dealings, and withal rather 
kind-hearted. He was a worthy man in his own 
peculiar fashion, and had naturally very little of that 
bile in his composition which, in regard to Papists, 
he was obliged to manifest exteriorly, as, without it, 
he could not maintain that influence which his high 
pretensions to godliness gave him in the community. 

The family of Deacon Samuels consisted at this time 
of a maiden-sister whose grand climacteric was at least, 
ten years back in the past, and a son of sixteen, named 
Josiah, a tall and rather clumsy youth whose precoci- 
ous gravity gave great hopes of future distinction 
amongst the elect. I was told that Josiah had a 
sister who was away somewhere seaward on a visit, 
but as none of the family spoke of her, I, of course 
made no inquiries concerning her. From the tone 
in which my informant mentioned the young lady, I 
knew not what to think of her, other than this, that 
she was esteemed no credit to the house of Samuels. 
The surmise to which this impression gave rise in my 


CONFESSIONS OP AN AI OSTATE. 


109 


mind was strengthened if not confirmed by the dead 
silence which reigned in the house concerning her. 
“ She must be no great things,” said I to myself, 
“ when they seem to feel her absence so little.” 

The demerits of Miss Samuels, the younger, if 
demerits she had, were amply made up for to the 
community in general by the rare qualities of her 
Aunt Olive, who, good lady ! was looked up to still 
more on account of her evangelical virtues than her 
commanding stature, which, together with her high- 
heeled shoes, elevated her far above all female com- 
petitors. 

Such was the family into which I was happily and 
most graciously introduced by the worthy patriarch 
who was its ostensible head. Ostensible, I say, for I 
afterwards found out that Miss Olive, not he, wielded 
the domestic sceptre. 


no 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


CHAPTER YII. 



BOUT a month after I had taken up my 
abode in the house of Deacom Sam- 
uels, (where to say the truth I was as 
well treated as heart could wish,) I was 
one morning disturbed out of a pleasant 
dream by the sound of voices clattering 
and talking at a prodigious rate in the 
garden without, and almost under my 
window. Starting up in a fright sup- 
posing I had overslept myself, I first 
to ran my watch and found it only a few minutes 
past six, which was my usual hour for “ turning out.” 
Finding all right in that direction I next hastened to 
the window, and lifted the smallest possible bit of 
the snowy blind, with a view to discover what the 
noise meant at that early hour of the morning. The 
speakers were not to be seen from where I was, they 
being close t3 the wall underneath, but I speedily re- 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


Ill 


cognized one of the voices" as that of Miss Olive. 
The other was a female voice, too, but it sounded 
strange to me, although somehow I liked its tones, 
for they were clear and silvery, ay! and mirthful, 
too, like the warbling of a linnet or a thrush. 

“ It ain’t any use to talk so, aunt !” said the musi- 
cal voice, and its tones waxed somewhat sharper and 
higher, “ I don’t care if he do hear me — I say you 
had no business to give him my room, and I will have 
it this very day. An attic-room is quite good enough 
for father’s clerk, and so you should have known — 
all of you !” • 

The aunt tried to soothe the ruffled young terma- 
gant, as I inwardly styled her, but her efforts were 
thrown away, at least while the pair were in my 
hearing, and as they walked away together, still in- 
visible to me, the debate proceeded fast and warm. 

“So,” said I to myself, as I made my hurried toilet, 
“ this is a fine specimen of a godly young puritan. I 
suppose she arrived some time in the night. And 
she wants to eject my poor self in a summary man- 
ner, I see. Well ! I’m sorry to leave this pretty 
room, for I don’t think' there’s another like it in the 
house — but, of course, her ladyship must have her 
way and her room into the bargain. ‘ I will have it 
this very day !’ To be sure, Miss Brimstone ! it isn’t 


112 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSIATE. 


me that would keep you out of it— much good may 
it do you, when you get it ! — ‘ it ain’t any use talk- 
ing so, aunt !’ — oh ! of course not, you young spawn 
of the -covenant ! you have it in you. I’ll go bail 
you’re bitter as soot, and as sharp as a razor ! Well ! 
I don’t wonder now at their being so careless about 
her. I’ll be bound she keeps the house in hot water 
for them when she’s in it !” 

Feeling anything but comfortable in the conscious- 
ness of having the spoiled daughter of the house 
prejudiced against me beforehand, I looked forward 
with no very pleasant sensations to the prospect of 
meeting her at breakfast, and when eight o’clock came, 
I left the store with a heavy heart, and entered the 
parlor with, I must confess, a very sheepish air. At 
the first glance, I thought I had the room to myself, 
and I felt ever so much relieved. I was mistaken, 
however, for I had hardly taken a seat — which I did 
near one of the front windows — when a light rustling 
sound at the farther end made me start and look 
around. O ye fates ! half buried in an old arm-chair 
near the back window right opposite where I sat, 
was the daintiest little sylph that ever floated on a 
moonbeam, and looking at me from behind some stray 
curls, with the drollest expression imaginable, were 
a pair of eyes that seemed formed for mischief — a 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


113 


malicious pair of orbs thefy were, if my judgment 
went for anything — and as I caught their expression 
of supercilious mockery, evidently directed to myself, 
I winced as though an adder had stung me. Still 
the face to which these eyes belonged was so very — 
shall I say beautiful — no, piquant rather, and bright 
and sparkling, that it riveted your gaze in spite of 
you. I was at the same time attracted and repelled, 
and although I took up a book Avhich fortunately lay 
in my way, and pretended to be much engrossed by its 
contents, still I could not for my life help stealing a 
glance now and then at the bright apparition in the 
arm-chair. She, it appeared, was amusing herself at 
the expense of my evident perturbation, for almost 
every time that I looked towards her I was so unlucky 
as to meet her eye, and then she was sure to look 
still more arch, as if to increase my embarrassment. 
At last she fairly laughed out, and for my soul I 
could not help laughing, too, whereupon the young 
lady arose and came some yards nearer to where I 
sat, as if to show off her exquisite little figure, then 
threw herself coquettishly on a sofa and laughed again 
with that girlish air at once so artless and so full of 
fun. ^ At length she spoke : 

“ I shouldn’t wonder, now, if you were father’s 
new — the young gentleman from Boston !” 


114 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


“ I shouldn’t wonder if I were,” said I, involun- 
tarily catching her sportive manner. 

“ Mr. Ker — Ker — what’s the rest of it ?” 

A bright thought flashed on me, suggested by Miss 
Samuels’ attempt at pronouncing my name. “ There 
ain’t any more of it,” said I, “ my name is Kerr — 
Simon Kerr, at your service.” 

“ Kerr ! — why that is funny, now — I thought aunt 
said your name was Ker-gan, or something that 
sounded horrid Irish — are you sure your name is only 
Kerr ?” 

“ Quite sure, miss ! — people' sometimes put an 
addition to it in the way you mention — ^but that was 
only amongst the lads in our office, who did it for a 
lark — my name is Kerr, I assure you !” 

The rest of the family now came in, and as break- 
fast was already on the table, we took our seats at 
once, after a formal introduction of me to Miss Sam- 
uels, and of Miss Samuels to me by her father as 
“ my daughter Eve — Mr. Kerrigan !” The introduc- 
tion I felt to be superfluous, and so did Miss Eve, 
too, as she contrived to make me understand by a 
furtive look of sly meaning. The introduction over, 
I took occasion to set the seniors and Josiah risht as 
regarded my name, whereat the Deacon expressed 
his satisfaction, inasmuch as my real name had much 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


115 


the advantage of the nickname in point of respecta- 
bility. The good man was quite indignant at the 
liberty which the good-for-nothing young Boston- 
ians had taken with my patronymic. It is needless 
to say that ever after I was known to the Samuels 
and aU New Haven as Mr. Kerr. Bless the mark! 
many a time I laughed in my sleeve as I thought how 
nicely I had gulled the Irish-hating New Englanders, 
but the laugh was turned the other way, as I fancied 
how my mother and the “ folks at home ” would feel 
if they heard me addressed by a name so unfamiliar 
to Irish tongues or Irish ears. The Deacon looked 
at me with no small surprise when he first heard his 
daughter address me by my new cognomen, and per- 
ceived that I answered it as naturally as possible. 
The wicked device of my Boston comrades which 
had given such an awkward addition to my name was 
then explained, much to the good man’s gratification, 
for “ somewhow he never could take to that there 
name of Kerrigan, or get his tongue right about it — 
and besides, it always made folks stare to hear it in 
his store, it sounded so Irish-like !” 

This point happily settled, we “men-folk” swal- 
lowed our breakfast with due dispatch, and proceeded • 
to the dispatch of business in the store at the corner 
of the next block. When night came I was shown 


116 


CONTESSIOXS OF AN APOSTATE. 


to a bed-room very different indeed from that which 
I had previously occupied, not, however, without an 
elaborate apology from the elder Miss Samuels. 

“ I hope you won’t find it hard of me, Mr. Kerr !” 
said the formal spinster, “ it ain’t my fault, I assure you. 
It’s all along of that self-willed Eve, who insisted 
on having her room back again, and no other room 
would she have. She’s an awful girl that, Mr. Kerr ! 
Her heart is as dry — as dry as powder — the dew of 
heavenly grace has never watered it, nor never will, 
I guess, for the child is so proud, so obdurate, I 
might say, that I have no hopes of her — none in the 
world ! — oh ! what a house we should have without 
her. I would that some charitable Christian man 
would take her to himself, for her own father is 
ashamed of her unregenerate spirit !” 

“ A charitable wish,” thought I, “ for the Christian 
man — her own father cannot manage her, and yet 
you would have another undertake the job. A pre- 
cious piece of goods she must be, this Miss Eve. And 
yet” — what I further soliloquized after closing my 
room-door, any young gentleman of twenty-two may 
imagine who has ever been “ struck ” as I was by 
the sudden apparition, when least expected, of a 
bright-eyed, roguish lovely girl of eighteen, breaking 
in on the dullest and most monotonous of lives. 


CONFESSIONS OP AN APOSTATE. 


117 


Suffice it to say, that I was quite willing to excuse 
her faults, patent as they were to every beholder. 

“ How do you feel in your new chamber, Mr. 

what’s your name ?” said Miss Eve to me with pro- 
voking indifference when we met next morning very, 
very early, at a sharp angle of one of the garden 
walks. I don’t know what took us both out so early 
that morning. 

“ Much exalted,” I replied, “ and entirely obliged 
to you for my sudden promotion, which is altogether 
beyond my merits.” 

“Oh, you are too modest by half, Mr. Kerr!” 
She remembered my name this time. “ Many of 
your countrymen attain much higher promotion than 
that in this Western World — though I’m sorry to say 
they thank people as little for ‘ drawing them up ’ as 
you do me for sending you to the upper story.” It 
needed not the significant motion by which the saucy 
girl pointed to her delicate neck to show that she 
meant anything but a compliment, and otherwise her 
words were not very pleasing to me. 

“ My countrymen. Miss Samuels ?” 

“That’s just wffiat I said! — I guess you think I 
don’t know what you are. But you can’t blindfold 
w^^?, I tell you. There’s that about you that’s too 
Irish to be got rid of, though you try ever so hard. 


118 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


There ! don’t look so angry — ^it ain’t any use to ieny 
it. I see you want to, but dovi^i — I han’t got anything 
against the Irish, for all I do speak hard of them once 
in a while. If you ain’t a Papist, I don’t mind your 
being Irish, though father and aunt and all the folks 
about here have a perfect horror of them — ^they have 
indeed !” 

Where was the use of denial under these circum- 
stances? and resentment, or the appearance of it, 
would have only given Eve an opportunity of laugh- 
ing at my petulance, so I had nothing for it but to 
admit the fact, and compliment the young lady on 
her penetration. 

“ And now that you have my confession !” said I, 
“ I have no doubt but you will take good care to 
make it public — especially as you seem quite con- 
scious that it would injure me.” 

“I’ll do just as I have a mind to, Mr. Kerr! — I 
always do : if I thought it would really spite you I 
might whisper it to a confidential friend who would 
soon set numerous other confidential tongues agoing 
on the subject, and it would be all uji with your pre- 
tensions to respectability — but — it all dejjends on how 
you act.” 

I was just going to inquire, half jest and whole 
earnest, what line of conduct would be most likely 


COKFESSIOITS OP AN APOSTATE. 


119 


to meet her aj3probatioii, when she smiled and nodded 
in the direction of the house, and looking that way 
I saw, to my utter dismay, the Deacon himself ap- 
proaching, 

“ With reverend step and slow.” 

I ^vas for making my escape under cover of the pj^a- 
midal box-wood near which we stood, but Miss Eve 
commanded me to keep my ground, and stooping she 
plucked a leaf of trefoil which grew at her feet, and 
handed it to me. 

“ Come quick, father,” she said to the old man, who 
certainly looked rather sourish as he approached, and 
glanced from one to the other of us with an uneasy 
aspect ; “ can you tell us — for being a Deacon you 
ought to know’ more than others — whether this three- 
leaved plant is a descendant of the weed so loved of 
Irishmen, or if not — how came it here ? Mr. Kerr 
here, though never having seen an Irish shamrock, 
will have it that this is a spurious article, not even a 
cousin of the other.” Oh ! the wicked glance that 
shot upward at me from under the long lashes ! 

Much relieved, apparently, by this ingenious though 
simple stratagem, the old man declared that he knew 
very little of such matters, not being overstocked 
with book-learning. 


120 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


“And indeed I think yowWbe better in your bed, 
Eve Samuels!” he curtly added, “than studying 
botany before sunrise. Go in, child, and help Rachel 
to prepare the breakfast.” 

Eve tripped away with the brightest of smiles, 
after pinching the grave old man on the cheek and 
laughing heartily at his “ Shame, shame. Eve ! — will 
you never learn to conduct yourself as a Christian 
maiden should ?” 

I saw nothing un-Christian in the girl’s conduct, 
yet I did not wonder at what her father said, for it 
must be confessed there was as little of the Puritan 
about her as though she had been nurtured in France 
or Ireland. I was roused from a reverie into which 
I was falling by the voice of Deacon Samuels. 

“ Mr. Kerr — ” said he, and then be' stopped, “ Mr. 
Kerr ! it ain’t pleasant to have to speak of the faults 
of our own flesh and blood, but I do hope you’ll not 
be scandalized at the thoughtless levity of this child’s 
conduct.” 

“ Scandalized, Mr. Samuels ! why, I see no fault in 
her !” I spoke more warmly than I intended, and 
the old man looked up at me with a peculiar expres- 
sion, as he replied : 

“ You don’t, eh ? — you must be very -lax in your 
notions of female propriety, then I” 


CONFESSIONS OF 4.N APOSTATE. 


121 


“Well! I don’t know that I am, sir I — howevei, 
that’s neither here nor there — I had no intention of 
giving an opinion on your daughter’s merits, which 
I would consider a great liberty on my part. Surely 
you would not have me speak hard of her in your 
'presenceP 

“ Why no, Kerr ! — come to think of it, you couldn’t 
well do that. But I may speak of her myself as she 
deserves — with a view to prevent you from being 
scandalized by her fantastical ways. I hope you have 
noticed that she is altogether different from the rest 
of us.” 

“ I have, indeed, Mr. Samuels ! — the difference is 
quite perceptible.” 

“ Very good, ve-ry good, indeed. And I guess you 
have been puzzled to know how she came to be as 
she is.” 

I thought it best to answer by an affirmative nod, 
as I knew not well what I could say with safety. 

“ Well, now, I know Olive would soon tell you all 
about it, so I may as well have the first of it. You 
must know that Eve’s mother was a Frenchwoman.” 

“A Frenchwoman!” I repeated with unfeigned 
astonishment. 

“ Yes, a Frenchwoman !” 

“ And a Catholic ?” 


11 


122 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


It was the Deacon’s turn to look astonished, which 
he did, and somewhat nettled, too I he drew himself 
up and looked me fuU in the face with a counten- 
ance quite evangelical, it was so bitter. “ Now, Mr. 
Kerr ! I want to know,’^ said he very slowly, his 
words gathering intensity of emphasis as he pro- 
ceeded, “ I want to know do you, or do you not^ mean 
to insult me 1” 

I, of course, eagerly disclaimed any such intention. 

“Well, then, sir, never — as long as you and I live 
under the same roof — never so far forget what is due 
to my character as to hint, or insinuate the possibility 
of my ever having consorted with a Papist. No, 
sir ! it was my misfortune to fall in with a French- 
woman — a Protestant, of course — when I was a giddy 
lad serving my time to a dry-goods merchant in Bos- 
ton.” 

“ I should like to have seen you when you were a 
‘ giddy lad,’ ” I said within myself, but, of course, it 
was within myself. 

“The young woman was comely,” went on the 
Deacon, “ a well-favored damsel and well spoken, 
too, and I met her often at the house of a relative of 
mine whose ways were according to the flesh. I was 
giddy, as I told you, and like a little fish that plays 
around the fatal bait till it can no longer resist its 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


123 


longing, and snatches greedily - at its ruin, so I was 
attracted by this ‘ strange woman’ (as the good book 
forcibly styles the unregenerate daughters of the ene- 
mies of God’s people), till my heart was ensnared. 
I swallowed the bait, hook and all, and took the for- 
eigner to my bosom, and since that hour remorse has 
settled on me like a blood-sucker, and the effects of 
my sin are still with me in the daughter that Angele 
left behind her when she died. Woe is me ! she has 
the comeliness of her unhappy mother, and her hard, 
unregenerate spirit that mocks at the workings of 
divine grace.” 

“ But was your wife’s conduct really bad or objec- 
tionable ?” I inquired with much curiosity. 

“No, no — according to this vain world she was a 
good wife and a good mother, for the short time she 
lived with me, but oh ! the lightness, the levity, the 
un-Christian levity of that woman was beyond de- 
scription. She was worse than her daughter, I do 
think, and you may judge from that what manner of 
wife she made me.” 

I was strongly tempted to laugh in his face, but I 
knew that would make him my enemy for life, so I 
stretched my face to a sympathetic length, and cast 
about for something to offer by way of consolation. 
Fortunately I had it at hand, for I just caught a glimpse 


124 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


of Josiah, crossing the alley with that precocious 
heaviness of step and gravity of countenance which 
made him a juvenile pillar of the conventicle. 

“ It is happy for you, sir,” said I, “ that the late 
Mrs. Samuels left you one promising subject — Mr. 
Josiah seems to take after your side of the house.” 

“ I thank my Maker he is a good lad,” said the 
Deacon with a sudden change of manner ; “ he grows 
in wisdom and in grace.” 

“ In grjease certainly,” said I to myself, as my eyes 
again fell on Josiah who was somewhat of the fattest 
for his years. 

“ But his superabundance of grace came not to 
him from AngMe Dupre — ” 

“No ? — who, then ?” 

“ Why, from his own mother, a godly woman, who 
was a shining light here in New Haven, where I took 
her to wife after it pleased Heaven to take Angele 
hence. Mercy Heavyside was indeed a rare woman 
— a woman endowed with the Spirit’s best gifts — 
would that she had lived longer, for she might have 
overcome the rebellious heart of my unhappy Eve — ” 

We were here summoned to breakfast. During 
the meal, I noticed Miss Eve glancing at me occa- 
sionally with an expression half humorous, half in- 
quisitive, which I was at no loss to understand, but I 


CONTESSIOXS OF AN APOSTATE. 125 

dared not give even one explanatory look, for I felt 
that three pair of lynx eyes were upon me. As for 
Eve, she seemed to take a malicious pleasure in teas- 
ing her aunt and mimicking her grave brother, to the 
evident annoyance of her father, who was, neverthe- 
less, forced to laugh at times in a very undeaconlike 


manner. 


126 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


HE aspect of things was completely 
changed in the Deacon’s household 
after the return of Eve. The still 
water of our daily life was now per- 
petually in motion, curled hourly and 
momentarily by some delightful little 
whim of Eve’s, set down by her staid 
and sober relatives as a fearful back- 
sliding. Dullness was forthwith ban- 
ished from the house, driven hence, it 
would seem, by the sparkling smile 
and mirthful voice of our Euphrosyne. 
To her father, aunt, and brother, the 
change was torture, but to me it was delightful — 
quite a relief. It is true there was little sympathy 
between myself and Eve. We were always carping 
at each other, and hardly ever agreed on any one 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


127 


subject, yet this very disagreeinent had in it a kind 
of strange charm. In spite of myself I was attracted 
to the wild, witty, provoking little damsel who seemed 
bent, morning, noon, and night, on thwarting and 
annoying me in every possible way. The very sight 
of her freshened up my wits and set them sparkling 
and frothing like champagne. I thought it was a 
spirit of emulation that moved me to foil the girl 
with her own weapons, and so I encouraged it, little 
dreaming of its real character. It did startle me a 
little at times when I found myself so continually oc- 
cupied with the thought of “ what Miss Eve would 
say to this,” and “ what Miss Eve would think of 
that,” but I easily mAnaged to get over my uneasi- 
ness, for. every time the pair of us entered into con- 
versation she nettled me so in one way or the other 
that for the time I was positively angry, and wondered 
verj innocently how any one could possibly like that 
tormenting little minx. Part of her system of an- 
noyance vras to keep me continually on the stretch 
about my unfortunate country. Twenty times a day 
she was, or appeared to be, on the point of letting 
out my secret, and my imploring look only made her 
laugh. Still she always managed to avoid making 
any disclosure, adroitly changing the conversation 
just when my fears were wound up to the highest 


128 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


pitch, and perhaps, too, the curiosity of others pre- 
sent who would, doubtless, have enjoyed such an ex- 
quisite morsel of scandal as that of Mr. Kerr’s being 
convicted of Irish birth. As regarded my religion I 
had little or no apprehension, for the Deacon was the 
only one who knew it, and his interest, together with 
the credit of his establishment, alike bound him to 
secrecy. Even to myself he made no allusion to it, 
and I sometimes thought that he forgot all about it, 
as, for instance, when he so earnestly besought me 
not to be scandalized at the delinquency of his daugh- 
ter. I was mistaken, however ; Mr. Samuels did not 
forget that I was a Papist, but he wanted to make me 
forget it, and in this he was excellently well assisted 
by the peculiar circumstances in which I was placed. 
The whole of Kew England was at that time one 
vast mission under the pastoral care of the Bishop of 
Boston. The Catholics were comparatively few, and 
scattered here and there in little knots and groups 
throughout the Kew England States, without priest 
or church, except when the charity of the Boston 
clergy impelled them to visit the remote parts of the 
immese diocese on a mission. I was, therefore, com- 
pletely isolated, for although there were, doubtless, 
many other Catholics in Kew Haven, I neither knew 
them, nor they me. My intercourse was exclusively 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


129 


with Protestants of the evangelical school, and they 
never appeared to suspect me even of Popish 'pro- 
clivity. They had a notion, I could see, that I was 
rather lax in my views, but that was nothing more 
than often occurred to good father and mother’s chil- 
dren. Go no farther than Eve Samuels, who had 
been nurtured in godliness, and fed on sound doc- 
trine ever since — ever since her mother’s death. 
Mine was just a similar case, the old ladies of the 
town seemed to think. By my name I must be 
Scotch, for the Kerrs were most all lowland Scotch 
folk, and, no doubt, I had had a pious, God-fearing 
mother, not to speak of my paternal parent, but I 
had been so long amongst “ the tribe of the ungodly ” 
in Boston, that I had fallen into the slough of indiffer- 
ence. I believe my name and Eve’s were often cou- 
pled in public prayers at the meeting-house which 
the Deacon and his family attended. This was capi- 
tal fun to Eve, and many a good laugh she had her- 
self at the pious exercises practiced in her behalf. 
But the laugh was all to herself, for as often as I was 
moved to mii’th by her serio-comic account of the 
zeal with which our joint conversion was sought after 
in the conventicle, she instantly stopped short and 
rebuked me with well-feigned displeasure. It was 
my greatest consolation that she knew nothing of 


130 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


my real religious “ opinions,” atid I felt ever so grate- 
ful to her father for keeping the matter secret. This 
cowardly concealment of my faith I easily accounted 
for to my conscience by the specious pretext that 
when there was neither church nor priest, nor any 
opportunity of practicing the duties of religion, there 
was no necessity for my making idle professions which 
could only subject me to ridicule and contempt. 
“ Yes !” said conscience, “ that is all very fine, Mr. 
Simon Kerr ! — ahem ! but how will you account for 
eating meat on Fridays and Saturdays ? You were 
terribly angry with poor O’Hanlon some years back 
for doing the same thing, what have you now to say 
for yourself^ when you do it to make folks believe 
that you are what you are not ? — eh, Simon ? — what 
would the old woman at home say if she saw you 
gorging yourself three times a day with forbidden 
meats ? — what would Father O’Byrne say, either ?” 

As I never was able to answer this with any degree 
of satisfaction, I generally snubbed “the inward 
voice ” at this point, and manfully asserting my inde- 
pendence, said I didn’t care a snap for either of them, 
I’d eat what I pleased, and when I pleased. Many 
other things I said to conscience in regard to its be- 
ing meddlesome and intrusive, and I know not what, 
but somehow", bluster as I would, conscience never 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


131 


would be convinced nor yet silenced, and I was obliged 
to admit, moreover, that it always had the best of 
the argument. Logic and rhetoric were alike at 
fault in discussing matters with conscience, which, in 
fact, I found a very tyrant, for it would hear no ex- 
cuse, extenuate no fault, or connive at any weakness, 
where duty was concerned. It was a thorough-going 
inquisitor of a conscience, as I used to think, and its 
punishments were quite as severe as any inflicted 
(in romance) on the tender victims of inquisitorial 
malice. 

The hardest thing of all, however, was Eve’s biting 
allusions in regard to my not going to church. It 
did not appear to me that she cared what church I 
belonged to, or whether I belonged to any, and still 
she kept harping on the subject I supposed from pure 
spite. 

“ Do you never go to church ?” said she to me 
with her usual abruptness, on the third Sunday after 
her return. 

“Not in New Haven,” I laconically replied. 

“ And why so ?” 

“ There ain’t any church here where the preacher 
comes up to my ideas of Christian doctrine.” 

“ There ain’t, eh ? and what may your ideas be, Mr. 
Kerr ?” 


132 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


“ You wouldn’t be anything the wiser if I were to 
tell you.” 

“ You’re very polite indeed, Mr. Paddy.” 

“ I am about as polite as some of my neighbors, 
Miss Eve — I can’t but be obliged to you for that 
nickname you gave me. There’s your father calling 
you.” 

“ I’m not deaf, I thank you. But do tell me,” and 
her voice softened a very little, “ do tell me what re- 
ligion you profess.” 

“Another time. Miss Eve ! — when I feel disposed 
for confession. Will that do ?” 

“ ETo, it won’t do, and I’ll tell you what, Mr. Kerr, 
you’d best not put me to guessing. I might possibly 
guess something that you wouldn’t like.” 

I shrank, without knowing why, from the piercing 
glance that rested on my face, and I actually felt my 
cheek glow. I knew not what I had best say, and 
was still hesitating as to what I would say, when a 
low mocking laugh from our first mother’s malicious 
namesake made me start and look towards her. She 
was about to leave the room, and had turned back 
with a warning gesture, accompanied by the strange, 
startling laugh I have mentioned. 

“ So you won’t tell !” 

“ What can I tell ? — there’s no preacher here whose 


_ CONPESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


133 


doctrines meet my approbation. That’s all, I assure 
you.” 

“ hTo, it ain’t all — you know it ain’t, but I’ll get to 
the bottom of it some day, and then — ^look out for 
yourself !” 

On another occasion she pressed me so close that 
I was fairly cornered, and I told her half jestingly, 
and by way of a pun, that I was a Universalist. 

“ Universalist !” she repeated very slowly, eyeing 
me at the same time with a very scrutinizing look. 
“ That’s an odd religion for an Irishman — how did 
you come by it ?” 

“ That’s a secret ?” 

“ Xot to me, for I don’t believe you’re anything 
of the kind.” 

“ And why not. Miss Eve ?” 

“ Why, because you Irish, unless you’re greatly 
belied, are more prone to believe too much than too 
little — in fact you’re too superstitious to be a Univer- 
salist or any such thing !” 

Having no very clear idea of the extent to which 
Universalism was opposed to superstition, as insinu- 
ated by Miss Eve, I thought it best to beat a retreat, 
the ground on which I stood being so untenable ; I, 
therefore, made a very low bow, and thanked the 
young lady on behalf of my countrymen. 


134 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


I had been about half a year in New Have^i when 
the entire town was thrown into commotion ;by the 
news that a Catholic priest from Boston had ^rrived 
for the purpose of holding a mission. At fii|st the 
report was considered incredible, and the gossips 
were sharply rebuked by the more godly among the 
inhabitants for giving circulation to such scandalous 
rumors. In due time, however, the report was found 
to be but too true ; a very mysterious-looking indi- 
vidual suddenly made his appearance in the quiet 
streets, closely buttoned up in a tight-fitting black 
surtout, gliding here and there in the quietest and 
and most Jesuitical manner possible. Quite a Popish- 
looking character he was described to me, although 
those who had seen him felt bound to admit that 
he seemed to be “ rayther a decent-looking man,” 
which, under the circumstances, was quite remark- 
able. 

All that day there was nothing talked of but the 
Popish priest, his dress, his appearance, with the prob- 
able object of his visit, for the meaning of the word 
mission was by no means clearly understood. Y arious 
speculations were afloat, and more than the usual 
amount of guessing was done on the occasion, but, 
of course, all was shrouded in mystery, and no one 
was any wiser than his neighbor, at least amongst 


CONFESSIONS OF AN AI O STATE. 


135 


the inhabitants proper. Miss Olive was in a slate of 
nervous excitement from morning till night, — and 
from night till morning, I suppose, too — for at the 
breakfast-table she appeared each morning with such 
an increase of haggardness and attra-biliousness on 
that leaf of flesh which is said to contain the index 
of the mind, that it was quite plain she had not 
wooed the drowsy deity, or, wooing, found him un- 
propitious ; which Eve and myself set down to her 
anxious curiosity concerning the priest. Poor man ! 
how innocent he was, or appeared to be, as he walked 
our streets, of the thousands of eager eyes that were 
peering at him through half-closed blinds, and from 
behind curtains. Still less conscious was he, I have 
no doubt, of the tenter-hooks on which his myste- 
rious appearance had placed the good people of the 
vicinage. 

When the announcement of the priest’s arrival was 
first made certain by Josiah’s oracular testimony, I 
could perceive that the Deacon glanced at me un- 
easily, and I purposely avoided his prying eye. There 
were eyes, however, that I dreaded still more than 
his, a pair of dazzling orbs whose language I had 
learned to understand, — how, I could hardly say even 
to myself. To these eyes, as usual, mine were irre- 
sistibly attracted, impelled, on the present occasion, 


136 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


by a feeling that was far beyond curiosity. I expected 
to encounter a fixed gaze full of malicious meaning, 
and was prepared to look as defiant and as independ- 
ent as possible. I had kept from looking at Eve 
until the eflTort became painful, and with desper- 
ate resolution, I at last turned my eyes towards her 
— and was relieved beyond expression. She was look- 
ing me full in the face, but in a way which I little 
expected. She was evidently lost in thought, and 
the expression of her face was such as I had never 
seen it wear before. Dreamy, and soft, and subdued 
it was, as though her thoughts were of a gentle, 
pleasant kind, such as she loved to dwell upon. Meet- 
ing my eye she neither started nor blushed, but smiled 
good-naturedly, I suppose at the sudden change which 
she must have seen on my countenance. I could 
hardly believe my eyes, and I know not what I should 
have said in my utter amazement, but before I could 
get out even a solitary interjection, the smile on Eve’s 
face had assumed its wonted archness, the softened, 
pensive look had vanished from her eyes, and she 
asked in her mocking way, “ What are you thinking 
of, Mr. Kerr ! — ain’t you going to take any tea this 
evening ?” 

Of course I was, and my apologies to Miss Olive, 
when I found her hand outstretched with my share 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


137 


of the precious beverage, were very sincere but very 
awkward, so much so, indeed, that Eve laughed out- 
right, and even the evangelical features of her brother 
relaxed into a smile for which I could have knocked 
him down with right good Tfill. 

“ Don’t mind them, Mr. Kerr !” said Miss Olive 
with very unexpected kindness, “ I reckon you were 
taken up, as I am myself, with the audacity of these 
agents of the man of sin. It is, indeed, deplorable ; 
and calculated to make us think — that is, if we can 
think on any such serious subject,” and she cast a 
vinegar-glance at her niece. The latter, in reply to 
the caustic insinuation and the petrifying look, shook 
her finger playfully at her aunt, and told her to be- 
ware lest she might be provoked to say what some 
people wouldn’t like to hear. The ghost of a blush 
made its appearance on Aunt Olive’s lank face, and 
she made a deprecating gesture to Eve that was 
meant to be seen by us all, as much as to say : “ Don’t 
now — there’s a good girl — don't let out my little deli- 
cate secret !” There was an affectation of youthful 
bashfulness, too, in the spinster’s keen eyes so affect- 
edly cast down, that the effect was irresistibly comic, 
and the Deacon himself laughed as heartily as any of 
us. youngsters, to the utter surprise and discomfiture 
of good Miss Olive. She had been playing off what 
12 * 


138 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


she considered very pretty airs with a view to make 
us men-folk understand that what “ met the ear ” w^as 
little compared with what was “ meant,” and her 
mortification was beyond expression when she found 
the impression the very reverse of what she expected. 
To the Deacon especially her anger was directed, and 
after him Eve came under the lash. 

“ It ain’t any wonder, Joel Samuels,” said she, 
drawing herself up, “to see your children miscon- 
ducting themselves, when an aged man, like you, and 
a Deacon, moreover, gives them such an example. I 
wonder at yow, brother — indeed I do !” 

“ Why, Olive,” said her brother in extenuation, 
“ flesh and blood couldn’t stand it without laughing !” 

“ Stand what. Deacon Samuels ?” 

“ Oh ! you know well enough ! — ^pooh ! pooh ! don’t 
be angry — what is it all but a joke !” 

“ Joke, indeed !” repeated the ancient fair one with 
increasing asperity, “ I know the joke it is — I do — it 
ain’t anything but real spite,” and she darted a look 
at Eve who was smiling and playing with her spoon 
in the easiest way imaginable ; “ some people know 
very well that they’ve lost the best string they had 
to their bow — at least the one they fain would have. 
Joke indeed ! — we shall see how the joke will end !” 
And so saying she sailed out of the room with the 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


139 


nearest approach to the majestic that she could com- 
mand. 

“ Why, do tell, Eve,” said the Deacon, trying hard 
to compose his features, “ why do tell what this 
means ?” 

Eve shook her head, but Josiah answered, “I guess 
I know, father ; it’s all along of Parson Greerson — ” 

Every eye was now turned on Eve, and to say the 
truth she looked somewhat fluttered, but still the 
careless smile was on her saucy lip. 

“ Parson Greerson,” repeated her father slowly, 
“ why, I thought — ” 

“ You thought him a fool, father, but you find him 
a wise man — eh ?” and with a piercing glance at me 
from under her long lashes, she tripped off after her 
aunt. 

“ Well !” said the Deacon, “ it ain’t any use trying 
to understand these girls — I thought it was quite an- 
other way — but it’s best as it is, Josiah ! — ain’t it ?” 
“Maybe so,” was the answer, and so the matter 
rested for that time. I, of course, had nothing to 
say, but I felt puzzled and mystified, perhaps, some- 
what glad, like the Deacon, but on different grounds, 
for reasons to be shown hereafter. 


140 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


CHAPTER IX. 



LL that night and the follow ing day I 
could think of nothing but Parson 
Greerson, and his supposed attentions 
to Miss Olive Samuels. Do as I 
would, I could not get the matter out 
of my head, and I dwelt on it till my 
brain was giddy. Had I heard that 
the monument on Bunker Hill had 
been taking a sail on Massachusetts 
Bay, I could not have been more per- 
plexed to account for its volition, than 
I was by the intimation of Greerson’s 
proclivity to our ancient femme de menage. Although 
sorely puzzled to account for his taste, I was fully 
aware that my heart throbbed and fluttered in a very 
strange manner at the thought that such was his 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


141 


taste. Of all the male visitors who frequented the 
Deacon’s house, Parson Greerson was the very last 
man whom I would have suspected of any such at- 
traction, he was really a gentlemanly, handsome 
young fellow, with as little of the Puritan about him 
as I ever saw in any other native New Englander. 
He was one of the most popular preachers of “ our 
kirk” in those parts, and, to do him justice, was mas- 
ter of a fine intellect and a happy vein of humor, 
which, however, he was fain to repress within the 
very narrowest bounds, in virtue of his standing 
amongst “the chosen.” Now it seemed to me that 
the young minister had been unusually mindful in 
our regard of his duty of visiting his hearers, and 
that principally since Eve’s return. It is true he paid 
no particular attention to the fair daughter of the 
house, on the contrary, he rather affected to avoid her, 
but still I always had a misgiving that his eyes wan- 
dered in her direction oftener than they had any need 
to do. I had noticed him, at times, too, when con- 
versihg with the aunt, falling into a fit of abstraction 
that to me was very suspicious, as his eyes followed 
the graceful and fawn-like figure of the niece. I had 
even seen his whole face brighten into smiles at ^ome 
pert witticism of Eve’s, until a glance at the serious 
visage of Miss Olive recalled him to decent gravity 


142 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


and a proper sense of his position. A new light had 
broken in on me through Eve’s badinage^ and the 
light was wonderfully cheering. But, alas! there 
was a cloud hanging over the matter — a cloud of 
doubt and misgiving that would not be dispelled, do 
as I might, so that fear and hope had alternate pos- 
session of my mind, and I was sensible of a nervous 
tremor, a flutter of anxiety such as I had never before 
experienced. Why all this, was the question I asked 
myself fifty times a day, but somehow I could never 
get a satisfactory answer from within. 

Meanwhile the Catholics of the town and of its 
vicinity were making the most of the “days of 
grace” afforded them by the priest’s visit. Almost 
the only one whom I knew for certain as “ belonging 
to that persuasion,” was an Irishman who worked 
by the day in the Deacon’s garden. I know not how 
he came to suspect me of being his co-religionist, for, 
although I had many a chat with him about “ the old 
country,” I had carefully avoided even the slightest 
intimation of my being a Catholic, whereas Phil took 
good care that I should not remain in doubt on the 
subject of his belief. 

On the Saturday evening of that week, Phil watched 
his opportunity (I believe he staid an hour past 
his time for the very purpose) and accosted me 


COIfFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


143 


as I walked in the garden a few minutes after 
supper. 

“There’ll be Mass in the mornin’ at John Gray’s,” 
said Phil, as I stopped to admire the neatness of a 
bush he was trimming. ^ 

“ \Y ell ! ” said I, with a start, “ and what of that ?” 

“ Oh ! nothing at all,” said he, with the queerest, 
drollest look, “only I thought, maybe, you might 
like to know. Among us Catholics here,” and he 
laid a great stress on the word, “ it’s great news en- 
tirely. It’s not often weVe a chance of hearing 
Mass these times. Glory bo to God, it’s the fine op^, 
portunity we have now — if it ’id only last we’d be 
all right — but I hope there’s a good time cornin’. 
Howsomever, sir, if you’re not what I took you for, 
there’s no harm done.” 

“ Oh ! not at all, Phil,” said I, with some hesita- 
tion, for I did not half like the comical expression of 
sly humor that was visible on Phil’s nut-brown face. 
I was at first half inclined to confess the truth, but 
when once I noticed the quizzical look aforesaid, and 
fancied that Phil was making fun of me, and perhaps 
despised me in his heart, pride rose up in arms and 
obstinately closed my mouth on the secret. Still I 
would not appear to notice what was, after all, only a 
look and a half smile, so I bade the gardener “ good- 


144 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


evening ” with as much composure as I could com- 
mand, and strolled leisurely down a shady walk. I 
was induced to look back more than once as I walked, 
and, through the sun-lit foliage that skirted the walk, 
I saw Phil leaning against a crabbed plum-tree, with 
an unusually thoughtful look on his weather-worn 
features. He was, doubtless, trying hard to solve 
the knotty problem of my religious indifference. 
Honest Phil Cullen ! how sincere was my respect for 
you at that moment, as you stood there in your mole- 
skin jacket, your fine manly figure a personification 
of sturdy independence, and your frank countenance 
darkened with a frown at the thoughts of my pitiful 
prevarication, which could not escape your native 
shrewdness, aided by the light of faith. How poor, 
how contemptible a creature was I in comparison ! — 
I, mean, truckling, shrinking like a guilty thing from 
the suspicion of being a Catholic, which this humble 
day-laborer doubtless considered his proudest distinc- 
tion. Other thoughts crowded into my mind in this 
connection — aye! thoughts of 

the mother that looked on my childhood,” 

the pious mother who would cheerfully walk many a 
long, long mile rather than miss hearing Mass on 
Sunday or holiday. And the father who was little 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


145 


less devout — and the sisters and brothers who were 
dwelling peacefully at home in the good, old-fashioned, 
homely sanctuary, where all virtue was inculcated, 
not by words, but by daily, hourly example — and the 
venerable pastor who had been so proud of my pro- 
gress in religious instruction — all, all were before me, 
and my heart swelled almost to bursting with the 
multitude and magnitude of my emotions. I rushed 
back to open my mind to Phil, but Phil was no 
longer there. Happily, ray dear-bought resolution 
did not vanish with him, and, as if in reward for the 
effort it had cost me, I was enabled to carry it out. 
So true it is that God assists those who labor in earn- 
est to overcome themselves and their evil passions. 
The most serious difficulty which I had foreseen was 
-unexpectedly removed by the absence of Eve, who 
had gone out to spend the evening, as I was told on 
entering the house. The witchery of her eyes once 
out of the way, I dreaded nothing during the even- 
ing, and had actually made up my mind to go to 
confession, as I knew the priest would be “ hearing ” 
till the night was far advanced. How this I con- 
sidered an achievement — I mean the resolution — and 
I felt myself more of a man during the hour or so 
that I had it before my mind than I had done since — 
since I came to Hew Haven. Avoiding, all unneces- 
13 


146 


CONFESSIONS OP AN APOSTATE. 


sary conversation with the family, I retired to my 
room soon after I went in from the garden, intending 
to set about preparing myself for the solemn, and, at 
all times, painful duty in which I was steadily re- 
solved. I had not been long thus engaged when rap, 
rap, comes Josiah to my door. What was wanting, 
I asked. Oh! somebody’s grandmother had died, 
and certain things were wanting that could only be 
had in Deacon Samuels’ store. So down I had to go, 
and when the store was seen open, sundry persons 
popped in for' something or another of which they 
suddenly found themselves in need. I was so vexed 
that I could hardly speak a civil word to any of 
them, but still they were all customers, and must be 
served when once in. By the time I got back to the 
house, the Deacon was there, and Parson Greerson 
was there, and some other notable individual with 
him. The Deacon could not hear of my going out. 
I pleaded a pressing engagement. It was no use, 
out I could not get, unless I told the truth, and I 
would as soon bite my tongue off as do that. So 
there went the opportunity in mercy given me, and 
all through my pusillanimous fear of being known 
for a Catholic. I was on thorns all that evening, as, 
indeed, I well deserved to be. 

It was late when Miss Eve came home, so late that 


COXPESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


147 


I was already in my room preparing for bed. It is 
true it was only half-past ten, or thereabouts, but that 
was considered a late hour in the New Haven of that 
day. I opened my door softly, and stepped on tip- 
toe to the top of the staircase, ^so as to ascertain, if 
possible, who it was that saw Eve home. I listened 
anxiously, trying to catch the words that game dulled 
to my ear up two pairs of stairs, but I could dis- 
tinguish nothing, save and except the parting 
“ Good-night,” which I fancied was spoken tenderly 
by Eve. Undoubtedly the young man’s voice quiv- 
ered in a way which it had no right to do, and I laid 
my head on my pillow to dream a harassing dream 
of the owner of that voice, a certain young merchant 
of the town who was esteemed a thriving man ; what 
was more alarming to me, he had long been paying 
attention to Eve, though with doubtful prospect of 
success. 

After a night of feverish, broken slumber, I arose 
very early, and, profiting by the unbroken stillness 
of the house, stole softly down stairs and made my 
%vay to the street. I w^as determined to hear Mass 
that morning at all hazards, and bracing myself up, 
as best I could, for the probable or possible chances 
of discovery, I walked manfully on in the direction 
of John Grey’s farm-house, which stood a little way 


148 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


from the city, at the farther end of a pleasant green 
lane, or what I would I have called in my boyish 
days, a horeen. The house and everything about it 
looked, it seemed to me, particularly snug and com- 
fortable that bright autumn morning, with 

“ Tho corn-tops green and the meadows in their bloom,” 

the richly-laden apple-trees in a small orchard at one 
end of the house, and the soft, hazy-looking sun shin- 
ing down with his gentlest light on all the pleasant 
scene. But to me the chief beauty of the picture 
was the stream of people, men, women and children, 
that was flowing in through the white gateway, and 
under the hop-covered door-porch. Oh ! how my 
heart swelled that moment with thoughts long un- 
known, unfelt. Memory was busy, busy weaving 
her magic spell that carried me back to St. Kevin’s 
Glen and our new parish chapel, where the country- 
folk, for miles around, were wont to assemble weekly, 
in all weathers, to ofier prayer and sacrifice, and hear 
the familiar teachings of the good old pastor, who 
had grown grey amongst them. When I, too, with 
a lightsome heart, though, perchance, an empty pocket, 
would 

Cross the fields to early mass, 

And walk home with the neighbors.” 


C025TESSI0NS OF AN APOSTATE. 


149 


My thoughts were sad, if not bitter, and I asked my- 
self with a sinking heart, “ What have you gained, 
Simon Kerrigan, by leaving your old home ? ha\ e 
you not lost more in one way than you gained in 
another 

Before I had come to any conclusion on the subject 
(other than the instinct which was the voice of con- 
science), I had reached the door and followed the 
crowd into a large room on the fii-st floor, where a 
temporary altar had been fitted up, and before it in 
silent prayer knelt the venerable priest in his white 
surplus and stole. He had evidently been hearing 
confessions, although it was yet but six o’clock. In 
a few moments he stood up and commenced vesting 
himself for Mass, while the people all knelt in pious 
recollection. As I looked around upon the little con- 
gregation I recognized many whom I had never sus- 
pected of being Catholics, and others whom I did 
know for what they were. Amongst the latter class 
was Phil Cullen, whose round eyes were fixed on me, 
as I entered, with a kind of half-pleased, half-mock- 
ing expression. 

During the time that the priest was preparing for 
Mass I noticed one female coming in, whose appear- 
ance riveted my attention, it was so unlike any of 
the others present. Her figure was small and grace- 
13 ^ 


150 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


fill, as I could see even through the long cloak in 
which it was enveloped. Her face I could not see, 
or even catch a glimpse of through the thick veil 
which hung from her close straw bonnet. There was, 
on the whole, an air of mystery about the figure that 
attracted me with irresistible force, and I was almost 
sorry when Mass commenced, because I had to turn 
my back on it. I much fear that I derived little bene- 
fit from that Mass, good as my resolutions were as I 
approached the house where it was said, for in spite 
of myself my mind was wandering to the veiled fair 
one near the door, and instead of reflecting on the dread 
commemorative mysteries going on before me, I was 
wondering who she could be, and to what Catholic 
family in or about Hew Haven she could belong. 

To complete my perturbation I fancied once or 
twice that the eyes which I saw shining behind the 
veil, like stars through a mist, were observing me 
with fixed attention. It might be only imagination, 
but whether or not, the effect was the same on me. 
I was, as it were, in a fever of curiosity, and although 
decency obliged me to face the altar, I paid no more 
attention to the sacred rites than if they were cele- 
brated a hundred miles away. I had made up my 
mind to hurry out when the people stood up at the 
last Gospel, so as to watch the motions of the fair in- 


CONFESSIONS OP AN APOSTATE. 


151 


cognita^ instead of waiting to .see the priest, accord- 
ing to my first intention. 

I was doomed to be disappointed, however, for by 
the time I made my way to the door, the veiled figure 
was gone. I looked around in all directions, bewil- 
dered and amazed, but the object of my search was 
nowhere to be seen. A buggy was driving along the 
road in the direction of the town, but whether it con- 
tained the person in whom I was interested I had no 
means of knowing. 

Slowly, very slowly, I plodded my way back to 
town, in a very difierent frame of mind from that in 
which I came. The sunshine was still bright on the 
fields and gardens, the air was still fresh and balmy, 
and laden with the thousand perfumes of fruit, and 
flower, and herb, the people were already dispersing, 
and wending their homeward way in picturesque 
groups, chatting pleasantly as they went. I alone 
was dull, lonely, and dejected, uncheered by the 
smiles of nature, or the converse of my kind. And 
yet I could not tell why it was so. It could not be 
jjossible that baffled curiosity could alone produce 
such efiects, but if not that, I could in no ways ac- 
count for the depression into which I had so suddenly 
fallen. 

The Sabbath amongst Puritans is ever a dreary 


152 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


day — dull, and cold, ,and cheerless. The very cats 
and dogs seem to feel the saddening influence of 
over-strained and misapplied “ religion,” and neither 
bark nor mew is heard as it is on working-days. In 
fact, cheerfulness (not to say mirth) is prohibited on 
the evangelical Sabbath, so that a day which, amongst 
Catholics, brings not only rest but joy, is strangely 
enough converted by the people amongst whom my 
lot was then cast, into a day of weary, dreary, cold 
restraint. . Even the buoyant spirits of Eve Samuels 
could not resist the overwhelming heaviness of the 
domestic atmosphere, and although she laughed at 
the hypocritical length of pious faces, and in her 
heart had little sympathy with “ the saints,” still the 
force of habit made her almost as grave and serious 
on the Sunday as any other member of the family. « 

On this particular Sunday, I thought her even 
more serious than the occasion required, and, being 
myself in such low spirits, I felt sad and dejected, 
longing for Monday to come, and with it business in 
the store and the stir of life in the house, and Eve’s 
sportive gaiety, best and most effectual speciflc of all 
to cure my despondency. 

I would have given anything for a visit, no matter 
who made it — except, indeed, it was Parson Greerson, 
for notwithstanding Eve’s raillery, and her aunt’s 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


153 


appropriation of his attentions and intentions to her- 
self, I, somehow, could not get over my growing dis- 
like of the man, based on fears which lay far down 
in the depths of my heart. But no one came, not 
even the minister, and we had to pass the day in un- 
broken stillness and monotony. 


154 


CONCESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


CHAPTER X. 




HERE was a faint impression on my 
mind as I ascended to my chamber 
on that Sunday night that there was 
something unusual in Eve’s manner, 
at least towards myself. It was not 
increased coldness, or keener irony, 
or yet any shade of bitterness, and 
yet assuredly the change was not for 
the better in my regard. In my wak- 
ing moments during the night I had 
thought of it, and thought of it until 
I was lost in conjecture, and at last, 
towards morning, I fell into a sound, 
dreamless slumber on the conclusion that it was all 
imagination, and that it was only the Sunday cloud 
w'hich hung heavier than usual on Eve’s buoyant 
mind, which was sure to regain its lightness with the 


CONFESSIOXS OF AN APOSTATE. 


155 


cheerful dawn of Monday. After a hasty toilet I 
descended to the garden, hoping yet somehow fearing 
to find Eve there. Hope or fear, there she Avas, in 
her broad-leafed straw-hat, and looking like a second 
Flora as she bent over her flowers, watering-pot in 
hand. Yielding to the strong impulse Avhich urged 
me on, I approached her. She must have been lost 
in thought, for she started at the sound of my voice, 
and I saw by the momentary glance she cast on me 
tliat the interruption w^as anything but agreeable. 
xViixious to knoAV whether Eve Avas really changed, 
or, if so, what had caused the change, I made an at- 
tempt to enter into conversation, but her answers 
either came in monosyllables or came not at all, and, 
with a heavy heart, I was forced to give in to the 
conviction that Eve Samuels was no longer the same. 
Xot a trace remained of all that girlish coquetry, 
that sprightly Avdt and drollery, which had so charmed 
my senses. Oh ! how much I would have given at 
that moment for one of those sunny, flashing glances 
Av^hich used to illumine the darkest recesses of my 
heart. Even the mocking, scoffing tone which she 
very often assumed in talking to me, would have 
been noAV most welcome, but that was not vouchsafed 
me. Hardly a Avord or look could I get from Eve, 
no matter Avhat subject I started, and I was about 


156 


CONPESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


to give it up in despair, when a desperate idea came 
into my head. Worse I could not be I saw plainly, 
so I said then what, at another time, I could not have 
got my tongue to utter. 

“ I suppose you’re biting your nails now. Miss 
Samuels, that you let such a fine ‘ take ’ go off into 
your aunt’s net !” 

“ Take !” she repeated, with a kindling eye, “ what 
‘ take ’ do you mean ?” 

“ Why, the minister, to be sure !” 

A scornful laugh, a bitter, scornful laugh escaped 
Eve, and she turned on me with the air of a wounded 
tigress : “ Do you mean to say, Mr. Simon Kerr ! 
that you can swallow such a story as that ? I guess 
Greerson would be ill displeased with you if you be- 
lieved it even for a moment. My aunt’s net ! Ruben 
Greerson in my aunt’s net ! ha ! ha ! ha ! — ^no one 
living but a stupid Irishman would think of such a 
thing !” 

I was nettled at the way in which she spoke of 
Irishmen in general : “As I told you before. Miss 
Samuels !” said I, “ I am much beholden to you for 
your flattering opinion of ‘ Irishmen,’ but Irish as I 
am, I didn’t really swallow the story, as you say your- 
self. The mouthful was rather large for my throat, 
and wouldn’t go down, do all I could.” 


COUTESSIONS OF Alf APOSTATE. 


157 


“ Indeed ! — why, you astonish me, Mr. Kerr ! — 
so you are not quite so dull as I took you to be — you 
are actually a shade or two in intelligence above the 
animal with the long ears so generally useful where 
you came from.” 

Every word of this taunting speech went like a 
dagger to my heart. A sudden faintness came over 
me, and I was obliged to lean against a tree for sup- 
port. The false spirit which had hitherto sustained 
me was entirely gone, and I felt utterly miserable. 

“ This from you !” I said in a broken voice ; “ this 
from you^ Miss Eve ! of all people !” 

“ And why not from me, pray ?” and she turned 
on me quickly with a lowering brow, but seeing me 
leaning against the tree, doubtless as pale as a ghost, 
her countenance changed, and she said in an altered 
tone : “ Why, what on earth is the matter with you, 
Mr. Kerr ? you look like a corpse !” 

“ Oh ! it was only a little weakness I took,” said I 
with a forced smile, “ if anything serious did ail me I 
shouldn’t like to have you see me.” 

“ And why not ?” 

“ Why, because I believe you incapable of human 
pity — would to God that I had known it sooner ! — 
many a year of misery it might have saved me ! — ^but 
now — ” I stopped, turned my eyes from her face, 
14 


158 


C02TFESS10NS 01' AN APOSTATE. 


and sighed deeply I heard my own sigh echoed 
near me, but surely the echo came not from the heart* 
less, heedless, teasing creature before me. Alas ! it 
did, and more, too, much more than I ever dared 
expect. When I thought the girl so utterly un- 
worthy of real affection, she was most worthy, be- 
cause she was true to her own high heart, and spoke 
with a candor that in any other woman would have 
been set down as indecorous, perhaps imprudent. 

“ Look at me,” said she, and her voice trembled ; 
“ look at me and say again that I am dead to human 
pity.” I did look, and could hardly believe that the 
pale, agitated features, and the tear-dimmed eyes 
were those of the merry, laughing girl who had been 
for months’ long the sunshine of our dull domicile. 
So great was my amazement that I could not speak. 
Eve smiled faintjy and went on : 

“ I do not ask what you mean— I know it — I feel 
it here — ” and she laid her hand on her heart, “ I 
■v\dll not pretend to misunderstand you — a short time 
— a very short time ago I might have been — pleased 
— to know what I now know for the first time — but 
now — ” she unconsciously ended in the same way I 
had done, but I noticed it not — I noticed nothing but 
the insinuation conveyed in her words, and that 
infused new life into every vein, and made my heart 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


159 


bound with renewed hope. I sprang towards her, 
and attempted to take both her hands, but she quickly 
placed them behind her back, and warned me with a 
dark scowl not to make so free. 

“ Come no nearer,” said she sharply, “ there is a 
gulf between us which neither can pass — you are 
in the condition of Dives, and I in that of Lazarus.” 

“ How is that. Miss Samuels ?” 

“ I tell you there has arisen between us an insupera- 
ble obstacle.” 

“ Obstacle ! — an insuperable obstacle ! — why, what 
can it be ?” 

That I keep to myself for the present — for you, I 
think you know it already— I ihinh you do— hush ! 
anyhow, there’s father — not a word more — ^but hasten 
down that alley !” 

For some days after this my mind was in a constant 
’whirl of troubled thought. The sudden change in 
Eve’s manner, the emotion she had betrayed in the 
garden, were each a source of anxious speculation. 
The latter might have given me a gleam of hope, but 
the former instantly obscured it, and left me plunged 
in the deepest gloom. I tried and tried to penetrate 
the mystery, but the more I tried, it became only the 
more inscrutable. And what made the matter worse, 
that wicked Eve plainly enjoyed my distress, for, 


160 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


raising my eyes suddenly after a fit of painful mus- 
ing, I often found her watching me with a singular 
mixture of fun and sympathy that set my heart in a 
flutter. To crown all, the old man appeared to have 
been bitten by his whimsical daughter, for he, too, 
was changed, and began to wax thoughtful on our 
hands, and, as I considered, a little fretful, which, 
to say the truth, had never been his fault heretofore. 

Aunt Olive was just as usual, except that she be- 
gan to entertain fears for my health, which annoyed 
me not a little. Often, when I was doing my best to 
elude observation, and, perhaps, took refuge in a 
corner from the piercing eyes of Eve, Miss Olive 
would call out across the room : “ I guess you’re 
going to have dyspepsy, Mr. Kerr ! You look the 
picture of it ! You must take something for it be- 
fore it goes any farther. You must, indeed !” 

Eve’s mocking laugh was sure to follow : “ I guess 
you’re about right, aunty ! poor Mr. Kerr had better 
take some medicine — suppose you tried catnep, eh ? 
it’s ever so good for the stomach, Mr. Kerr — it is, 
indeed !” 

I could with difficulty repress my tears, but I 
managed to stammer out thanks for the well-meant, 
though officious kindness of Miss Olive. 

One evening when I felt, and I suppose looked 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


161 


more depressed than usual, the good lady withdrew 
quietly from the room, and speedily returned with a 
bowl of— water-gruel, prepared, she said, by her own 
hand. Even Josiah’s gravity was not proof against 
this, and he heartily joined in 'his sister’s burst of 
merriment. I tried to decline the “gruel” with 
composure, assuring Miss Olive that there was noth- 
ing the matter with me, and that I never could take 
gruel. She still persisted in pressing it upon me, till 
at last I fairly lost my temper, and bolted from the 
room, leaving Miss Olive standing on the floor with 
the unlucky bowl in her hand. Shrieks of laughter 
followed me even to the privacy of my little room, 
mingled with the angry voice of Olive ; and, to 
escape, if possible, the unwelcome sounds, I threw 
myself on my bed, just as I was, and buried my head 
in the coverlit. That was a luckless night to me, for 
it cost me the friendship of good Miss Olive, who 
ever after treated me with coldness and that starched 
civility which was her general manner. I observed, 
too, that she talked very often, unusually often, of 
“ that dear man. Parson Greerson,” pointing her 
remarks ever and anon with a glance of sovereign 
contempt at my unlucky self. Of course, I was much 
amused at the old lady’s little afiected airs, and, at 
another time, would have enjoyed then as capital 

14 * 


162 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


fun. But I felt sick at heart, and could find no 
enjoyment in anything, save watching Eve’s ever- 
changing features, and although there was little in 
her eyes or in her face to cheer my drooping spirits, 
I took a morbid pleasure in trying to read that fair, 
but treacherous index^ thence to form my conclusions, 
whether correct or not. 

So disturbed was my mind that I would gladly 
have gone to confession had I still had the opportu- 
nity. But the priest was gone, and the hour of 
grace had passed away, as I then sadly felt. 

Things could not go on in this way. The Deacon 
grew graver and more serious every day, and various 
hints escaped Josiah that “father wan’t pleased any 
more with how I managed matters in the store.” 
At last the old man spoke to me himself, and fairly 
told me that I wasn’t what I used to be, and that 
customers began to complain of my negligence and 
inattention. “ Now, once for all, Mr. Kerr,” said he, 
“ that will not do,” and he struck his stick on the 
floor, “ that ain’t the way I made my business, and 
what is more, it ain’t the way that you got along 
after you first came.” 

Had I followed the dictates of my own judgment, 
or even of my own temper at the time, I would have 
warned the old man that I meant to leave very soon, 


COXTESSIONS OF APOSTATE. 


163 


but my heart failed me when I thought of Eve, and 
I felt that, to tear myself away from the house where 
she dwelt, would have been more than I could bear. 
Pride and prudence ould alike have prompted me 
to leave a place so fatal to my happiness, but pride 
and prudence were silenced by the louder voice of 
passion, luring me on with false, deceitful hope. So 
I was fain to apologize to the Deacon, and in extenua- 
tion gf my temporary negligence, meanly sheltered 
myself under Miss Olive’s mistake. I muttered some- 
thing about the indifferent state of my health, but, 
to my utter discomfiture, the grave old man only 
shook his head and smiled a serious smile. 

“ Simon,” said he, “ I may as well tell you that I 
have had some thoughts' of taking you in as a part 
ner — what would you think of that ?” 

I, of course, expressed my obligations, and said I 
had no right to expect any such thing. 

“ Of course not, Simon, of course not, but I find 
you so useful, in regard to your knowledge of the 
business, and so good a salesman, moreover, that I 
certainly thought of giving you an interest — of 
course a small one, at first — in the business. I may 
do it yet, Simon,— if— if— you will only pay attention 
— and — why if there ain’t our Eve, a-walking in the 
garden with Parson Greerson ? I wonder what he’s 


164 


COKFESSIOXS OF AN APOSTATE. 


got to say to her — I ho^^e he ain’t a-making love to 
her, after all — for all she’s my daughter, she ain’t a 
fit wife for him. She ain’t !” 

Away he stumped, leaving me still more agitated 
than before, yet quite willing to endorse the Deacon’s 
opinion as regarded the matrimonial prospects of the 
pair before us. I had an intuitive feeling that my all 
of happiness was staked on the result of that confer- 
ence, and my very temples throbbed with burning 
desire to know what I had to expect, or what to fear. 
I was strongly tempted to go into the garden, where 
I might possibly overhear something to enlighten 
me, but, whilst I was hesitating, I saw the Deacon 
make up to Greerson, and Eve breaking away from 
both with a laugh, whose ringing music reached me 
where I stood. I knew not what to think, but one 
thing was certain, viz. : that I dared not venture out 
just then. , 

We had an early tea that evening, as the Deacon 
and his son had to go some miles out of town on 
business, expecting to return by the light of the 
young harvest moon. 

After tea, I heard Miss Olive asking her niece to 
go with her to pay a visit to a sick relation, where- 
upon I betook myself to the garden, almost rejoicing 
in the excess of my loneliness. I walked about for 


CONFESSIONS OP AN APOSTATE. 


165 


some time, thinking of the strange position in which 
I found myself, and wondering at the singular destiny 
which I fancied had brought me there, keeping my 
mind as far as possible from dwelling on its favorite 
object. All at once I remembered that I had re- 
ceived a letter from Ire and two days before, and had 
not as yet opened it, so entirely was I engrossed by 
the one thought. I had drawn it from my pocket, 
and was in the act of breaking the seal when in pass- 
ing the arbor I involuntarily looked in ; and there, 
with her back towards me, sat the identical young 
lady whose appearance at Mass in John Gray’s house 
had set my wits a-working ever since. I could hardly 
repress an exclamation of surprise, and my feet were 
as if riveted to the ground. The still unopened let- 
ter was again consigned to my pocket, and I stood 
with gaping eyes fixed on the graceful little figure 
which sat as motionless before me as though it were 
animated by no breath of life. 

I know not how long I might have stood there, 
fearing to move, or to take my eyes off the mysteri- 
ous figure, lest it should vanish from my sight like 
the leprachaun of Irish faery, but as it was I had not 
long to remain in such breathless suspense. The 
lady arose and turned towards me — the veil was 
thrown back, and tli e face of Eve Samuels was be- 


166 


COXFESSIOXS OF AN APOSTATE. 


fore me, looking somewhat as I had seen her for the 
last week, with the exception of an incipient smile 
which lurked about her mouth and eyes. Even this 
was encouragement for me and I made some steps 
towards her. 

“ Miss Samuels !” I exclaimed, “ can I believe my 
eyes — ” 

“ You can and may — ^how do you like my masque- 
rade ?” 

I made no answer — I knew not well to say, 
so I remained silent. 

“ You noticed a change in me,” said Eve, “ and I 
felt the change myself. I could not appear the same 
towards you after seeing what I had seen. You now 
understand the why and wherefore — at least I hope 
so. It is true I do not feel at ease about the means 
which I took to satisfy my doubts concerning you. 
I feel that I did wrong in bending my knee with 
Papists in their idolatrous rites, but I tell you plainly, 
I suspected you, partly from some hints let fall by 
my father, partly from other causes — now — ” she 
stopped, colored violently, and was preparing to move 
away. Her emotion was too visible, and too flatter- 
ing for me to let her go so easily. 

“ ISTow,” said I, repeating her own word, “ in what 
is now difierent from then ? — you hated, you despised 


CO^rPESSlOJfS OF APOSTATE* 


1G7 


me before, what lower can I have fallen in your esti- 
mation — what is it to you, Eve Samuels ! what relig- 
ion I profess 

I spoke bitterly, because I felt keenly, and Eve’s 
trepidation increased with every word I uttered. 
“ Hate ! — despise I” she repeated, “ who told you I 
hated or despised you, Simon Kerr ? I am an Ameri- 
can girl, and I never shrink from giving expression to 
my thoughts. I know j/ou do not hate me,” here she 
cast down her radiant eyes with the’ prettiest blush 
and the archest smile imaginable, “ and just as little 
do I hate yo?/— if I did, I would not have gone in 
amongst the children of Belial to watch over you.” 

“ Watch over me ! — how ?” 

“ Why, because I am determined to save you — I 
will do it, come what ma/. You shall come forth 
from the abomination of desolation which abides in 
the Romish Church, or — or — ” 

“ Or what ?” 

“ Or either you or I must leave this house.” 

“ But — but — I hesitated and colored to the 
temples at the base suggestion which passion urged 
upon me, “ but — suppose I — I — did as you desire 
(for my life I could not give a name to the foul 
thing which I then first saw as a possibility) — what 
good would it do me ? Eve Samuels and I would be 


168 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


still as far apart as wealth and poverty could make 
us.” 

“ You are mistaken, Simon,” she said in a soft, 
yet earnest tone, and she moved a step nearer to me. 
How my heart throbbed at the sound of my own 
name pronounced by her for the first time. “ You are 
mistaken, Simon ! — I have reason to know that if you 
were a Protestant, you might have Deacon Samuels’ 
daughter as well as a share of his business. I know 
not what you may think of me for speaking so, but I 
don’t care — I tell the truth.” 

I hardly remember how I felt at that moment, or 
what I did, but I remember all too well that the 
flood of joy which rushed in upon my soul carried 
away all the barriers which faith or conscience would 
have opposed, and I said, almost without knowing 
what I did say : 

“ I will be whatever you wish. Eve Samuels ! be 
mine, and make me what you please !” 


i 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


169 


CHAPTER XI. 


J ^ T were long to tell how I summoned 
courage to ask the Deacon’s consent 
to my marrying his daughter; how 
he gave it, after some hesitation, 
partly, he said, in order to put Eve 
out of the way of his godly young 
friend. Parson Greerson, whose pros- 
pects in the Church would indubita- 
bly be injured, were he to form an 
alliance with an unregenerate maiden 
such as Eve Samuels; how Miss 
Olive was equally relieved by the un- 
hoped-for appearance of the “ Chris- 
tian man ” whose good offices she had so fervently 
evoked with regard to her wayward niece ; how, in 
short. Eve and I resumed, and kept up to the last day 
of our single state, a constant Guerilla warfare of 
15 


110 


CONFESSIONS OP AN APOSTATE. 


sharp and pungent words, lying in wait for each 
other with exemplary patience, and darting out when 
least expected, with a charge of keen and caustic 
humor. Never was courtship like unto ours — at least 
I think so — since the days of Benedick and Beatrice, 
but, unlike that ever-memorable pair, when we quar- 
relled most in words, our hearts were the most at- 
tracted to each other, and our eyes contradicted what 
our tongues uttered. In fact, this continual whetting 
of our wits, gave a keener interest to what inter- 
course we had, and, I think, cemented our mutual 
affection. For my own part, I was so intoxicated 
with haf)piness, that I could not think, even if I 
would. But neither did I wish to reflect on the 
fearful sacrifice I was making — reflection, I thought, 
would drive me mad, or, at least, could only embitter 
my cup of bliss, the sweetness of which was now so 
delicious. What was religion with its unseen goods 
and remote promises, compared with the conscious- 
ness of being loved by Eve Samuels, and the imme- 
diate prospect of having her all my own ? Bah ! 
who cares for polemics, or theology, or any such 
stuff! To be the husband of Eve Samuels was the 
height of human blessedness, and for the superhuman 
enjoyments dimly held out by religion in an after 
life, I must only take chance. These were the ran- 


I 


CONFESSIOJfS OF AX APOSTATE. 


171 


dom thoughts wherewith I met and put to flight the 
promptings of my good angel, and before the wed- 
ding-day came round I had silenced them altogether. 
I exulted, of course, in my supposed victory, and 
gave full vent to the gushing flow of animal spirit 
w^hich speedily bore me out of the reach of self- 
reproach, and all other troublesome feelings of that 
kind. 

At length the happy day arrived, and I received 
Eve Samuels from her father’s hand. It was Parson 
Greerson who should have made us one, but it so 
happened that he was obliged to be in Hartford that 
day on very important business. Whether the busi- 
*■ ness grew out of the occasion I cannot pretend to 
say, but I knew Eve and myself exchanged signifi- 
cant glances when the Parson’s ceremonious “ re- 
grets ” were conveyed to the Deacon in our presence 
on the previous evening. For my own part, (and I 
think Eve’s, too,) I was not sorry that the young 
minister had contrived to hand over to a delegate 
what I felt would have been a painful duty for him. 
The Deacon, Josiah, and Miss Olive were all griev- 
ously disappointed, especially the latter, whose new 
fawn-colored silk dress and beautiful chip hat, a la 
gipsy, went for nothing in his absence. 

The marriage ceremony was hardly over when 


172 


CONPESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


conscience took up the lash and commenced the work 
of castigation which has hardly yet ceased, after 
years of remorse and sincere repentanpe. The friends 
and relations of my beautiful bride crowded around 
with their congratulations and good wishes, and my 
bosom swelled with rapture when I heard them salute 
Eve by my name, but alas ! conscience whispered 
that the ceremony which made her mine in the eyes 
of the law was for me nothing more than a cere- 
mony, and I shrank, as with a consciousness of guilt, 
from taking her to my bosom. “ The law and her 
father have given her to me,” said I, within myself, 
as I looked at her with swimming eyes, “but no 
priest has blessed our union — marriage is a sacrament 
divinely instituted, am I receiving it as such ? — ah 
no ! no ! — our union cannot be blessed, for how even 
could I ask a blessing on it ?” 

Notwithstanding all my efforts, these intrusive 
thoughts threw a fearful gloom over “ the joys of 
wedlock.” Eve herself did not fail to notice it, and 
she called me to account in her sportive way for 
what she called my very unreasonable gravity. It 
was not hard to persuade her, however, that the 
cloud which rested on my brow was the natural re- 
gret of a son that the mother who fostered his infant 
years and the companions of his youthful sports 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


173 


should be so far, far away on his wedding-day. But 
the great day passed away with its tumultuous joys, 
its manifold recollections. Even its dark forebodings 
and sad misgivings came at last to an end, would 
that I might say, forever. But it was not so, such 
as that day was, were years of my after life. The 
golden vista of joy to which it seemed the portal 
was, indeed, mine during many a year of chequered 
life, but the remorse, the scruples, the fears and 
doubts which cast their gloom athwart the bright- 
ness of that day were only the foreshadows of things 
to come. 

I found Eve all, and more than all, I had fondly 
believed her to be, and I never had reason to doubt 
that she loved me truly and lastingly. But unfortu- 
nately for my peace of mind, her sportive vivacity 
was in no way diminished by her assumption of the 
matronly character, and, as she had no great respect 
for religion herself, in any form, my change of relig- 
ion was one of her favorite subjects of ridicule. It 
is true she had the good sense never to allude to it 
before strangers — even her aunt or J osiah never got 
a hint from her of my having once been a Catholic, 
but when we were alone together, or with only her 
father present, she indulged in all sorts of fun and 
mockery with regard to what she called my “ cast- 
15 * 


174 


CONFESSIOJfS OF AN APOSTATE. 


off religion.” For a long time after onr marriage, 
she never gave her father even a hint of her having 
been at Mass one morning, but once, in his hearing, 
she forgot herself so far as to repeat in a mimicking 
way one of the Latin phrases she had heard on that 
occasion; her father instantly took her to task as to 
how or where she had heard such heathenish lingo. 
Poor Eve, unwilling to prevaricate, told the whole 
truth, and was severely chidden for her pains. 

“ I am thankful,” said the Deacon with unmistaka- 
ble sincerity, “ that it is Simon’s wife you are, rather 
than Parson Greerson’s — a woman trained as you 
have been, in the religion of the Gospel, to enter a 
Popish Mass-house — ” 

“ It wan’t a Mass-house, father — there you’re 
wrong,” interrupted the incorrigible Eve. 

“No matter, child ! when the godless rites of Ro- 
manism were celebrated there, the house was accursed, 
together with all who assisted thereat.” 

This was too much even for me, and I asked the 
Deacon did he not believe that the Romanists wor- 
shipped the same God as he did. 

“ They pretend to, Simon — of course they do — but 
you know yourself they give far more honor to the 
Virgin Mary and their trumpery old Saints than they 
do to their Maker.” 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


175 


“ I don’t know any suck thing, sir,” I replied 
warmly ; “ Catholics, even the most simple, know 
well enough the difference between God and his 
creatures, no matter how favored' or how privileged 
they may be. They adore but one God in three 
divine persons.” 

“ Nonsense, Simon, don’t we know they have as 
many gods and goddesses as they have saints and 
saintesses — Shan’t they altars erected to them, and 
churches, and don’t they offer sacrifice to them the 
same as they do to God ?” 

“ I tell you, sir, you know nothing at all about it — 
you just seem to know as much about Catholicity as 
you do about Buddhism — a great deal less, for all I 
know — and I suppose there ain’t any sort of use in 
trying to set you right on the subject, or rather to 
open your eyes to the truth.” 

“No use whatever, Simon, I know more about 
Papist doings than I want to — it surprises me to 
hear you talk of them as you do — ^before you mar- 
ried Eve you didn’t dare begin to talk so, and now 
when T thought you had turned away heart and soul 
from the unclean thing, I find you undertaking to 
prove it fair and spotless.” 

“ But, father,” said Eve, anticipating me, “ it was you 
that began the subject, not Simon — you forget that.” 


116 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


“ It don’t matter which, Eve — if Kerr had really 
got religion, his sense of right — his conscience, in 
fact, wouldn’t permit him to speak in favor of an 
institution which had its origin in the dark ages, and 
outlived them only by a diabolical miracle. Popery 
is a monstrous thing, an unnatural thing existing in 
this advanced age of the world. Faugh ! don’t talk 
to me about it — I ain’t a-going to tolerate any man or 
woman in my house who has a leaning towards it.” 

“ Why, Mr. Samuels,” said I, more and more net- 
tled as the old man waxed more angry, “ why, Mr. 
Samuels, it’s a pity you didn’t tell me so when I 
came here first. You musn’t have been so bitter 
against Papists then, sir, for I told you I was one.” 

“Yes, and you’re one at heart still,” said the 
Deacon with forced calmness, as he took up his hat 
and stick. 

“ Why, to be sure he is, father,” said my riddle of 
a little wife, with one of her sly looks at me ; “ you 
might as well try your hand at that proverbially use- 
less task of washing the blackamoor white, as to 
scrub away the rust of Popery. The Dominus Vohis~ 
ciim is in them to the back bone — eh, Simon ?” 

The strange quotation and its ludicrously wrong 
application tickled me so that I was forced to laugh. 

“ There now, father,” said Eve exultingly as the 


CONTESSIONS OP AN APOSTATE. 


Ill 


old man turned in surprise, “ you see he’s all right — 
you don’t know how to manage him, that’s all. Take 
my advice, and just say nothing to him, about relig- 
ion — leave that between him and me.” 

“ Well ! I guess you’re about right, child !” said 
the Deacon. 

“ Of course I am, father ! — ain’t I, Simon ?” 

To be sure I answered in the affirmative, where- 
upon the Deacon nodded very graciously, and stumped 
away in tolerably good humor. 

“ Eve,” said I, when we had the room to ourselves, 
“ Protestants are much given to talking of Popish 
intolerance — ain’t they ?” 

“ Not more so than it deserves, I think,” she re- 
plied gravely. 

“ What a pity they don’t see their own faults as 
they see those of others — now there’s your father, 
and if he ain’t about as intolerant a man as — ” 

“ As any Jesuit or inquisitor,” laughed Eve. 

“ Or as any of your old New England Puritans,” I 
retorted, “ and they, I take it, were the most intoler- 
ant set of men that ever cursed the earth since the 
days of Nero and Dioclesian.” 

“ Since the days of who ?” 

Instead of applying myself to give Eve a lesson in 
history, I set about so( thing away the frown that 


178 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


was gradually contracting her finely-arched brows, 
and in order to do this I had to give the whole dis- 
cussion the air of a jest, and assure her that I didn’t 
care one straw about religion. It was only her 
father’s tartness that provoked me to talk as I had 
done. 

“ He ought to be satisfied now,” said I, “ when I 
have abjured Popery to please — ” I paused. 

“ Not him — but me — ain’t it so ?” said Eve with 
her arch smile. 

“ Exactly so — I made the sacrifice for your sake — 
and I would make it again to-morrow — ^but neither 
you nor any one else must expect me to do more 
than I can do. I have cast off Popery, as you call 
it, but no other religion will ever fit me so well — I 
can never get into Protestantism, whether Calvinism, 
Methodism, Baptistism — or any other ism. So just 
let me go on my own way, and I will give you no 
cause of complaint outwardly. I’ll put on whatever 
religious garb you please, as far as going to church 
goes, but, for heaven’s sake, let me alone about Pop- 
ery — all of you. I’ll be all the better Protestant for 
it, I assure you !” 

The earnestness with which I spoke appeared to 
have its effect on Eve. Her love gave her the key to 
my feelings. Her lip trembled, and the color came 


COUTESSIONS OP AN APOSTATE. 


179 


and went on her peachy cheek, and her eyes were 
full of tears. It is needless to say that nothing more 
was said about religion then or for many a long day 
after. 

The bitterness displayed by the Deacon on that 
occasion, however, made such an impression on my 
mind that I could not help thinking of it long and 
often. It was something so foreign to his real nature, 
as I supposed, and so unlike anything I had hitherto 
seen of him, that it puzzled me more than a little. I 
ventured once or twice to speak to Eve on the sub- 
ject, but she only laughed it off, and said that it 
appeared I did not know before what a righteous 
man her father was. 

“ If there is any one thing on which he is more 
touchy than another,” said she, “ it is just as regards 
Popery. He hears and reads so much of its encroach- 
ing nature and its baneful effects on society that he 
both hates and fears it — that’s the truth — it ain’t 
palatable, ain’t it ?” 

And again she laughed and put forth all her witch- 
' ery to banish the unpleasant subject from my mind. 
My own observations, together with what fell occa- 
sionally from the Deacon himself, speedily convinced 
me that the good man really did hate nothing except 
Popery. It was his weakness. Eve said, and she sup- 


180 


CONFESSIONS OP AN APOSTATE. 


posed he couldn’t help it. It was a harmless preju- 
dice, she thought, and even a safe one. For her own 
part, although she was a little lax or so (that was 
her weakness, she archly said), she knew how to 
respect those who were always on the straight line 
of Scriptural truth, and never gave way either to one 
side or the other as much as a hair’s-breadth. Wheth- 
er Eve spoke in jest or earnest, I never could make 
out — I rather think she was half serious, for I found 
her out as time wore on to be much more in earnest 
about religion than I had, at first, supposed. 

In a continual tumult of this kind the first six 
months of my married life passed away. I fancied 
myself, notwithstanding, the happiest of men. I was 
again in possession of the best chamber, with its 
pleasant lattice opening on the garden, and I had re- 
gained it under circumstances which, at the time I 
lost it, I would have deemed beyond the range of 
probability. The Deacon, at my marriage, had given 
me a third of his business, so that I was already in a 
fair way of making an independence. But above all, 
and beyond all, I prized my wife, the brightest, dear- 
est, liveliest little helpmate that ever was given to 
mortal man, since Adam received his metamorphised 
rib. Then there was the triumph over my formidable 
clerical rival, not to speak of some half-dozen long- 


CONFESSIONS OF AK APOSTATE. 


181 


faced your.g prigs, who, with all their pretensions to 
extreme righteousness, admired Eve on the sly, and 
would have bid for her hand (and fortune) had there 
even been the shadow of a prospect of success. I 
was acquainted with some of these myself and saw, 
with unbounded satisfaction, wha^ they would fain 
have concealed, viz. : their spiteful chagrin at seeing 
the richest prize in 'New Haven carried off before their 
eyes by a comparative stranger. Their awkward 
efforts to disguise their feelings were not a little 
amusing, and this was especially the case with Greer- 
son, who generally contrived to keep out of Eve’s 
way for some months after her marriage. This con- 
duct was wholly inexplicable to Miss Olive, who was, 
or appeared to be, wholly unsuspicious of the minis- 
ter’s real “ proclivities.” Tt was a matter of astonish- 
ment to her how he could keep away so long, and I 
believe she never recovered from her amazement till 
the enigma was solved by the handsome parson’s 
entering into a matrimonial partnership with the 
young and wealthy daughter of another elder who 
lived some miles from town on the Hartford road. 
Who can tell the desolation, the despair which for 
many days made the sere and yellow countenance of 
my aunt-in-law a dreary blank to look upon, and oh ! 
the coquettish air of indifference which, by the end 
16 


182 


COlsT'ESSlOXS OP AN APOSTATE. 


of the first week, she succeeded in getting up. Poor 
Miss Olive ! no wonder she felt this “ the unkindest 
cut of all,” for, at forty-four, a lover — even an imagin- 
ary one — is something both rare and valuable — some- 
thing whose like may ne’er be seen again. 

They were bright days those for me, and brighter 
still for Eve. The canker that has gnawed away the 
strength and vigor of my mind, and destroyed the 
best affections of my heart, had not yet assumed its 
most virulent form. I was happy to all appearance, 
and, in part, my happiness was real. 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


183 


CHAPTER XII. 



EX years had past away since my mar- 
riage, and each one as it passed left 
some memento amongst us either of 
joy or grief. The Deacon had closed 
his eyes on this world just two years 
before, but not till he had seen three 
grand -children sporting around his 
knee. Another was born to us in the 
following year, so that we had “ quite 
a family,” as the phrase goes. Josiah 
and I were sharers in the business, but 
he had lately betaken himself to anoth- 
er dwelling in company with a cer- 


tain fat widow whose wealth was as noted in the 
neighborhood as her evangelical piety. Miss Olive 
was still, I might almost say, at the head of our 
establishment, for Eve was precisely of that disposi 


184 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


tion whicli rather shrinks from the multiplicity of 
household affairs, and gladly throws the responsibility 
of management on any one else. She had, moreover, 
a sort of liking for Aunt Olive, notwithstanding their 
frequent “ spats,” and knowing her to take both 
pride and pleasure in keeping the house which she 
had kept so long, she would not for the world 
attempt to curtail her authority in the least thing. 

Had Miss Olive’s watchful care extended only to 
our household affairs, I, too, would have been well 
content. Custom had reconciled me to the sight of 
her lank form rigid in perpendicular altitude at the 
head of our domestic board, ever amply furnished 
by her skill in the culinary art. Even the sound of 
her fife-like voice drilling “ the help ” in the kitchen 
betimes in the morning had become tolerable in the 
lapse of years, and, altogether, I rather relished her 
antiquated oddity of speech and manner. But there 
was one thing connected with her to which I never 
could, or never did become reconciled, for it touched 
me to the quick every day, every hour of my life, 
and kept the festering wounds of my soul ever open, 
ever fresh and bleeding. This was her Puritanical 
detestation of everything bearing upon Catholicity. 
Eve was a sound Protestant, too, in her way, and 
could be as bitter as any one at times, but there was, 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


185 


after all, nothing rancorous in her hostility to Catho- 
lics. She was opposed to their religion on principle, 
but her hatred did not extend to themselves ; she 
could afford a good word even' to a Catholic, and as 
a Catholic, even for the discharge of his religious 
obligations. Not so, oh ! not so with Miss Olive. 
Rabid and red-hot was ever and always her hatred 
of “ Romish people ” and “ Romish ways.” It 
seemed as though all the narrow bigotry of her old 
Puritan father had descended in a stream to her. To 
me the strangest thing of all was that she had never 
come in contact with any Catholic, except, to be sure, 
Phil Cullen, the gardener, and him she acknowledged 
to be an honest, trustworthy man. Neither had she 
learned anything of Catholicity from books, for her 
reading was all on the opposition side, consisting of 
ignorant and senseless tirades against a religion of 
which the writers knew nothing. And yet Miss 
Olive would have it that she knew all about “ the 
accursed thing,” and her constant answer to any 
word of extenuation in favor of Catholicity was : 
“ Don’t tell me ! I guess I know better !” 

And there I had to listen for all those long, long 
years to her perpetual abuse of Popery, and the num- 
berless tales she had to tell of priestly iniquity, and 
Jesuitical intrigue, and Romish superstition. It was 
16 * 


186 


CONTESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


not my heart that hindered me from refuting these 
vile calumnies, which to hear made my blood boil 
and my brain throb. But how could I, as a Protest- 
ant, undertake the defence of Romanism ? Had I 
been a real, sincere Protestant, with my disposition, 
I might have been liberal enough to defend Catho- 
lics against charges which I knew to be false or 
exaggerated, if only for the love of fair play, and 
because they were absent. As it was, my own guilty 
conscience and Eve’s malicious eyes alike deterred 
me from saying a word of all the thousand that my 
heart dictated. I heard my own children, my boy 
and my three girls, daily and hourly receiving in- 
structions that poisoned iheir young minds, and filled 
them with the most erroneous ideas regarding the 
faith of my fathers, my own early faith, and the flush 
of shame was on my cheek, not unmixed with indig- 
nation; but there I sat, with my eyes apparently 
riveted on a newspaper although I saw not a word 
of its contents. It had gone to my heart to see one 
after one of the innocent creatures receiving Baptism 
at the hands of a Protestant minister. This pang 
soon past away, however, and the feverish unrest it 
caused me soon subsided into the easy torpor of 
indifference, which lasted till the next baptism came 
round — births and baptisms were, of course, wholly 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


187 


unconnected with us, for it was not till the child was 
able to use both limbs and tongue in their legitimate 
functions that the ceremony was gone through, such 
as it was. But the intervals between the baptisms 
were, unfortunately, not intervals of rest for me, 
owing to the causes before mentioned, and others not 
yet indicated to the reader. 

Independent of Miss Olive’s incessant, although 
aimless polemics, there were other secret sources of 
uneasiness, not to say wretchedness, growing out of 
my unhappy position. My poor mother’s letters had 
latterly increased in frequency, and every one was 
more desponding than the other. All the money I 
sent her from time to time did not satisfy her in the 
least. She felt, doubtless, from the tone of my let- 
ters, that my heart and soul were changed. The 
nature of the change, or its extent, she could not 
understand, but the unerring instinct of the mother’s 
heart, aided by the light of faith— in her simple soul 
so serene and unclouded — made her feel ill at ease 
with regard to my spiritual state. She spoke ever 
of my brothers and sisters and the young families 
who were growing up around most of them, in that 
cheerful, hopeful way which was natural to her, but 
when she came to speak of my affairs and the dear 
children whom I took such delight in describing to 


188 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


her, 1 was bitterly sensible that her feelings towards 
us were not the same. In order to put her on her 
guard, I had told her, soon after my marriage, that 
my wife was a Protestant, and although she never 
sent me an angry word in reply, I saw all too plainly 
that the announcement had raised up a barrier be- 
tween us — that my mother could never again feel 
towards me as she had done. After that she seldom 
mentioned priest, or chapel, or anything that was 
going on in regard to religion. By and by even “ the 
patron” in the Yalley passed off unnoticed, and this 
hurt me more than all, inasmuch as, every summer, 
since I left home, she had given me a minute detail of 
everything that had occurred there that she or the 
neighbors thought worthy of notice. These omis- 
sions touched my heart to its very core, and made 
me feel more wretched than I can now describe. 
The endearments of wife and children had no power 
to console me when I thought that the fondest of 
mothers had cast me from her heart. The good 
which we have not is ever more valuable in our eyes 
than that which we have, and the blessing whose 
possession gave us little or no sensible pleasure, is no 
sooner withdrawn from our grasp than we feel it 
almost a necessity of our being. Surrounded as I 
was by loving hearts, and loaded with the good 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


189 


things of life, I yearned for the motherly voice and 
the kindly smile of the old peasant woman far away 
by the Avonmore’s Banks, and I felt that I could 
have given worlds to hear her bless me once again. 
But, alas ! conscience was ever at hand with her 
envenomed sting, and her icy whisper chilled my soul : 
“ Do you merit your mother’s blessing ? Are you 
as deserving of her love, or God’s love, as you were 
when you left her straw-thatched cottage, to seek 
and find a better home in the stranger’s land ? — think 
what you were then, Simon, and what you are now, 
and wonder not that even the mother who bore you 
has grown cold and strange.” 

Starting from a reverie of this kind one day, I 
found Eve’s piercing eye fixed upon me with an inde- 
finable expression of contempt, mingled, however, 
with a certain softness which might indicate sympa- 
thy. I blushed, and she smiled — smiled in that pecu- 
liar way which no one else could imitate. 

“ What would you think, Simon, of a trip to Ire- 
land ?” she asked abruptly. 

“ To Ireland ! why, what put that in your head ?” 

“Why, ain’t it very natural for one to wish to 
see what one hears a great deal about ? — ain’t it, 
now ?” 

“ But you have never heard much of Ireland.” 


190 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


“ Haven’t I, though ? — I guess I have.” 

“ How ? — from whom ?” 

“ From yow, and no other.” 

“ Me ! — me talk to you of Ireland !” 

“ Well ! I don’t say exactly that you talked to me, 
but I heard you, which was all the same. Night 
after night have I lain awake listening to the words 
which you muttered in your troubled sleep ! Things 
can I tell you, Simon, of which I never dreamed, but 
which your disjointed night-ravings have made famil- 
iar to my ear as household words. Your old mother 
in her drugget gown — (what sort of stuff drugget 
may be I know not) — taking her fowl and eggs to 
market — an old, old priest with silver-gray hair and 
a certain Patricius O’Grady whose ferule seems to 
have fixed itself in your memory — (disgraceful old 
bears those schoolmasters of yours must have been !) 
— and if I am not sufiiciently well acquainted with 
some old body called St. Kevin, and a queer, out-of- 
the-way sort of place where he lives, or did live, it 
ain’t for want of hearing of him. Even the goats 
that you used to be tending on some mountain-side, 
I’m acquainted with them, too. So you see it ain’t 
any wonder that I should like to see so many strange 
sights of which I am constantly hearing !” 

My confusion increased with every word she ut- 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


191 


tered, and by the time she stopped (for want of 
breath) I was fairly confounded, and knew not well 
what to say. Seeing, however, .that Eve expected 
an answer, I stammered out something about regret* 
ting her being so often disturbed by a habit which 
I never knew myself to have before. 

“ Ah Simon I” said my wife, standing up and lay- 
ing her hand on my shoulder, “ I’m afraid your mind 
is ill at ease. Your heart is not with ms,” and she 
looked with tearful eyes at our little ones, who were 
sporting on the green sward near us under the 
orchard trees. “ Our religion is not yours, — there is 
a wall of brass between us.” 

What could I do but draw her to my bosom and 
assure her, as I did on that first fatal day, that relig- 
ion was nothing — she and her love, all — all. 

“ Will you promise me, then, to struggle against 
these dangerous illusions — I mean recollections ?” 

“ How dangerous ?” I asked with rising warmth. 

“ How ! why aren’t they like the hankering of the 
Hebrews after the savory flesh-pots of Egypt ? If 
your eyes were really opened to the light of truth, 
and your heart obedient to its voice, you would look 
back with disgust on the silly, and, I fear, wicked 
practices of a superstition which made your youth a 
dreary blank.” 


192 


CONFESSIONS OF, AN APOSTATE. 


“ Who told you it was a dreary blank ? — ^I’m sure 
I never did. Poor I admit I was, and my lot lowly, 

but. Eve, it was not wretched, nor dreary, as you 

% 

say — on the contrary, it was calm, peaceful, and — 
shall I say — respectable P' 

“ Yes, yes — out with it — why not ?” said Eve with 
some asperity. “ What a pity, Mr. Kerrigan, you 
ever left such a ‘ happy valley ’ as that sheep-walk, or 
or goat-walk, rather — especially as you can’t carry it 
about with you like the old religion which you wear 
so slily under the decent garb of Protestantism — just 
like some of the lazy old friars I have read of who 
used to wear a hair-shirt next their skin.” 

“ Why, Eve,” I exclaimed, opening my eyes very 
wide, “ is it you I hear talk so ? If it was your aunt, 
now, I wouldn’t mind, for I’m accustomed to hear her 
railing at Popery, and mind her talk no more than I do 
the rain pattering against the window when Pm snug 
within. But you — what’s come over you, at all ?’ 

“ What’s come over me, to be sure. Ain’t it • 
enough to drive one mad to see you so wrapt up in 
people and things near four thousand miles away, 
and making fools of us all here professing a religion 
that you have no faith in ? — ain’t it, now ? I declare 
it does provoke me so, at times, that I — I — almost 
hate you, I do, indeed^ Mr. Kerrigan !” 


CONFESSIOJTS OF AN APOSTATE. 


193 


“ Mr. Kerrigan,” I repeated, “ that’s twice you 
have called me so since we have been speaking.” 

“ And why not,” she replied sharply ; “ where 
would my eyes be if I didn’t know that your very 
name is a sham ?” 

“ How is that ?” 

“ How is it, you ask ! — why, you great goose, how 
often have I seen your mother’s letters — it is true 
you keep them pretty close, but still I have got sight 
of them oftener than you think. And the postmas- 
ter — don’t you think he knows ?” 

“ And did he tell you ?” 

“ Oh ! of course not,” and she smiled with provok- 
ing archness ; “ he is a confidential friend of yours — 
ahem! — he merely pointed out the address to me, 
one day I was in there — he wouldn’t give me the 
letter for you, having orders to leave your letters 
always till called for. Ah, Simon ! Simon ! hypoc- 
risy and duplicity are, after all, hard to keep up ! If 
I were you, I tell you what I’d do — I’d go back to 
Rome and get out some old Dominus Vohiscum or 
another — maybe St. Kevin from Ireland — to hear 
your confession, and deliver you of your spare change 
by way of praying your dead relations out of purga- 
tory, and all that — or else — ” she paused for a mo- 
ment, looked askance at me, and seeing that I had 
17 


194 


CONFESSIOXS OF AN APOSTATE. 


no desire to interrupt her, went on rapidly : “Or 
else, Simon, I’d be in earnest what I appeared to be, 
and let not that great bond of union— a common 
faith — ^be wanting between you and your family.” 

“ But it ain’t wanting — what more can I do to 
prove myself a Protestant ?” 

“ Do ! — why do what you do now, but do it in a 
different way, as though you were in earnest, whic^ 
you ain’t now !” 

This was more than I could bear. The last pull 
which she gave the reins was too tight even for my 
craven spirit, and I began to hold up my head a very 
little. 

“ I’ll tell you what it is, then. Eve ! I’m as much 
of a Protestant now as I ever can be. All the minis- 
ters in New England, with your aunt at their back, 
couldn’t get me one step farther than you got me 
yourself at the very start. The fact is, I wouldn’t 
listen to them at all, so they could never talk me 
into Protestantism, but you made me feel — you looked 
me into it, and in it now I am for good or ill !” I 
had worked myself up to a point of desperation, and 
I ended by catching her in my arms with an energy 
that was almost fierce, and, I believe, frightened her 
not a little. “ I have accepted your theology. Eve ! 
I have staked my temporal and eternal happiness on 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


195 


your love — I have given up — and for you— the my- 
riad consolations of the Communion of Saints — but 
don’t be too exacting — you have lowered me to the 
utmost in my own estimation — don’t trample on me 
now that you have me down — spare me, Eve, and 
don’t seek to pry into my miserable soul, let its 
secrets be my owriy and my heart shall be yours — 
yours ever and only.” 

One of the children just then happened to fall, and 
Eve broke away from my encircling arms, without a 
word or even a look by which I could calculate the 
eflect of my almost involuntary appeal. 

The reflections which followed when I found my- 
self alone were anything but cheering to my lacer- 
ated heart. Here was I, shut out by my own suicidal 
act from the communion of the church in whose doc- 
trines my faith was as strong as ever, for, like the 
devils, I believed and trembled. I would have long 
since rid myself of what I considered the burden of 
faith, and walked erect in the miserable freedom of 
the unbeliever, but shake it ofi* I could not. Night 
and day it clung to me, and held my soul in its grasp 
of iron, its fearful truths staring me in the face like 
supernatural eyes of fire, burning and searing my 
very brain. My days were days of dismal, hopeless 
thought, and at night, even when sleep did weigh 


196 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


down my eyelids, visions of terror too often thrilled 
my soul. To balance all this I had the love of Eve 
and the fair children she had given me. Alas ! even 
that, even these pure affections were not what they 
ought to be, sources of unalloyed happiness. Every 
one of my children was a separate cause of excruti- 
ating self-reproach. They were growing up not only 
in ignorance of true religion, but in bitter hostility 
to its divine doctrines, drinking in with every breath, 
the sour, acrid spirit of puritanical Protestantism, so 
diametrically opposed to the cheerful, genial, soul- 
enlivening faith in which I had grown to manhood. 
Oh ! who can tell the torture of the thought that my 
apostacy affected not myself alone but every child I 
had, or might yet have, ah ! and their children after 
them? This I had never taken into account until 
my children began to grow up around me, then it 
became one of the most deadly drops in the poisoned 
cup I had prepared for myself. Added to all this 
was now the thought that the wife for whose sake I 
had incurred such a fearful penalty, had no faith in 
me. “ She sees me,” thought I, “ almost as I see 
myself, and how can she but despise me, traitor as I 
am to God and my own convictions. She sees me as 
a hypocrite, professing for worldly motives a religion 
which my soul abhors — I loathe, I detest myself— 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


197 


how can she but do the same ? — oh wealth ! — oh 
wife ! — oh children ! how dearly have I purchased 
you all, and yet you do not give 'me happiness — happi- 
ness !” I repeated with a low moan, “ oh ! there is 
no more happiness for me ! The God of Heaven 
who created me is angry with me — the mother who 
gave me birth is grown cold and strange, and those 
who once knew and loved me, know or love me no 
more — oh ! would that I had never left the humble 
shelter of my paternal roof ! would that I had never 
taken into my head the foolish notion of rising in the 
world. Had I been contented in the lowly sphere 
wherein I was born — had I been ‘ poor in spirit ’ in 
my boyish days, I might now be cheerful and happy 
as a summer bird !” 

Just then the softened voice of Eve spoke at my 
side, and her arm encircled my neck as she bent over 
me where I sat on a garden-bench. 

“ The dew is falling, Simon !” she said very gently ; 
“ had you not better come in 

The voice and the words fell on my heart like 
softest music, and the pressure of the little hand was 
like the touch of an angel’s wing. Hardly knowing 
what I did, I arose and followed Eve into the house, 
and the many-headed dragon took flight for that time. 
17 


198 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE, 


CHAPTER XIII. 



HE opening intelligence of my childi’en 
was to me, unlike other parents, an 
additional source of misery. As an- 
tagonism to Popery was the dominant 
characteristic of Miss Olive’s mind, 
and my wife’s views of religion, as far 
as they went, were ultra-Protestant, it 
may well he supposed that our little 
people learned to think and speak as 
they did who had the training of them. 
And I professing the same religion — 
no, not that exactly, either, for I could not have told 
if any one asked me, what I professed — protesting^ at 
all events, as I appeared to do, against “ the errors 
and corruptions of Rome,” how could I dare to teach 
them anything “ Romish,” or even edge in a word 
on behalf of the much-belied doctrines and practices 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


199 


of that “ persuasion.” Had I been a real Protestant, 
“ to the manor born,” and free from the burning 
brand of apostacy, with even a slight knowledge of 
Catholics or their religion, I could' have counteracted 
much of the pernicious teaching so lavishly bestowed 
on the children, but, endeavoring to appear what I 
was not, I labored under a continual restraint, fear- 
ing to be found out, and have my borrowed feathers 
shamefully torn off. And this fear was on me, not 
only in the presence of my wife, or her aunt, but 
even when alone with the children. If any of them 
made a mocking or contemptuous remark, as very 
often happened, in relation to some Catholic doctrine, 
seen by them through the distorted medium of their 
old aunt’s bigotry, I was forced to gulp down my 
rising anger, and keep silence, or seem to laugh as 
they did, lest a dangerous report might be m^de to 
the ruling powers. 

One day when I came suddenly on the youngsters 
at their sport, I found Joel, the eldest boy, entertain- 
ing his juniors with a fancy sketch of “ the Pope of 
Rome,” wherein that personage was described as 
having a cloven foot, stunted horns, and a most fiend- 
ish cast of countenance. 

“Fie! fie, Joel!” I cried almost involuntarily, 
“ what nonsense is ‘hat ? The Pope is just like 


200 CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 

any other man ! — ain’t you ashamed to talk like 
that ?’ 

“Why, no, father! — ^its every word true — aunty 
says so.” 

“ Oh ! yes, father,” put in little Olive, the youngest 
girl, “ aunty tells us ever so many things about the 
big old Pope, with him horns and red eyes — and — oh ! 
my, he naughty, wicked man — I so fraid of him !” 
and the child actually shuddered with fear and horror 
of the revolting image. 

In vain did I put in a faint protest against the 
description of “ Giant Pope.” The impression was 
made on the ductile minds of the children by the oft- 
repeated nursery-tales of their evangelically-pious 
aunt, and as I dared not enter into any positive 
description of the Pontiff or his real abode, all I did 
venture to say, being merely denial, had little or no 
effe*ct in removing the rooted aversion so sedulously 
fostered for weeks and months. 

I took an early opportunity, however, of represent- 
ing to Miss Olive the injurious effect of such tales 
of horror on the plastic minds of children. Miss 
Olive listened with a stony aspect, and when I had 
done, she turned on me with an eye of fire : 

“ So you don’t like my portrait of the old fellow 
at Rome ?” 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


201 


“Well! it ain’t -SO much that — as — as — in short, 
you know as well as I do, or ought to know. Miss 
Samuels, that it ain’t right to tell children such 
frightful stories. I wonder at a woman of your 
good sense to do it.” 

“ Good sense — ah I — yes, I rather think I have a 
small share of that article — too much to have any 
leaning towards Rome — eh ! Mr, Kerrigan /” 

I started as though an adder had stung me. I 
looked at Eve, but Eve only smiled and shook her 
head. I looked once more at Miss Olive, and she 
smiled, too, in her grim, freezing way. 

“ Mr. Kerrigan !” I repeated. 

“ Mr. Kerrigan !” said Miss Olive after me, pro- 
nouncing every word so slowly and distinctly as to 
leave no mistake about it. “ Did you suppose, now, 
that folks here were so very green that you could 
come it over them like that ? Why, it wasn’t many 
months after you told us ‘ your real name,’ as you 
called it, till we found out your real, real one from 
Wilson Hunter of the Post-office. However that 
ain’t what we were speaking of— you can still be 
Mr. Kerr^ for all us, you know — but about the chil- 
dren* Don’t you trouble about what stories I tell 
them. I guess you’ll never hear of me telling them 
any that ain’t moral and useful. If you think I ain’t 


202 


CONFESSIOXS OF AN Ai OSTATE. 


fit to assist Eve in bringing up her children, why 
just say so, and I shan’t have anything more to do 
with them — or the housekeeping either.” 

The words that trembled on my lip were driven 
back into my tortured heart by an imploring look 
from Eve who took it upon herself to answer for me. 
She eagerly assured her aunt that I meant no harm, 
and that no one could be more sensible than I of the 
inestimable value of her care over the children, and 
her excellent moral training of them. 

“ Moral, Eve ! you say moral only — should hope 
it is religious as well — ” 

“ Oh, certainly, aunt ! no one can dispute that — in 
fact it is essentially religious,” Eve added with a 
spice of her earlier archness. 

I groaned in spirit as I inwardly assented to the 
truth of this half-satirical remark. Not so Miss 
Olive, who was so softened by Eve’s adroit manage- 
ment that she even deigned to overlook my silence 
(for I had taken up a book), and asked me with 
rather more good-nature than she usually displayed 
on any occasion, whether I would not call Joel in to 
hear him read. 

I assented as cheerfully as I could, and told the 
little fellow to choose what he should read. 

“ Oh yes, father. I’ll read the pretty story mother 


CONFESSIONS OP AN APOSTATE. 


203 


made me read this morning, about the great Romish 
idols, made of wood and stone and all such things, 
that they fall down and pray to. ' Ain’t that horrid, 
father ?” said the child, as he placed his finger under 
the first word to commence. Fain would I have 
taken the book from him, and flung it in the fire 
which burned so temptingly in the old-fashioned 
brazen grate. But Eve’s eye was on me, with more 
than its usual significance, and, what was still worse. 
Aunt Olive’s eye was on me, looking awfully cold 
and critical through the silver-mounted spectacles 
which, of late, she had been driven by hard necessity 
to wear. There was nothing for it, then, but to let 
Joel go on with his precious lesson, and for full 
twenty minutes I was compelled to sit listening to a 
nonsensical and yet ingenious parallel between the 
heathen gods of the Pantheon and the Saints 
of the Roman calendar — the latter, it was said, 
presiding over the spiritual darkness of modern 
Rome as the former did over its pagan predeces- 
sor. My heart swelled almost to bursting as I 
thought of good St. Kevin, and all the beneficient 
patrons of my childhood, whose guardian presence 
threw such a charm around my lonely wanderings 
in those happy, happy days when I was full of 
faith and hope, and had boundless confidence in 


204 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


the watchful care of those beatified servants of 
God. 

“ Alas ! alas !” said I within myself, “ this blessed 
connection with the unseen world, this all-consoling 
trust in the kindly intercession of the Saints, my 
children can never know — a dreary blank must their 
infancy be, deprived of this inefiable charm — oh mis- 
ery ! and am I to blame ? — ^have I ruined them as 
well as myself?” Under the influence of this rack- 
ing thought, I started to my feet, and telling Joel 
he had read enough for that time, I hastily left the 
house, nor stopped till I reached the river’s bank 
where I threw myself under a tree to give free vent 
to the headlong torrent of bitter thought that was 
sweeping through my soul. 

That evening, when I returned home, I found we 
had a guest for supper. He was a short, stubby 
little man with a bronzed, and yet ruddy complexion, 
enlivened by a pair of small, dark, never-resting eyes, 
expressive both of good humor and good nature. 
This individual had been in the habit of supplying 
the family with shoes, and although he was somewhat 
of a favorite with us all on account of his scrupulous 
honesty and imperturbably good temper, no one had 
ever dreamed of inviting him to our family table, for 
the truth was that we were rather fastidious in our 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 205 

choice of company. Besides good Mr. Elliott had 
moved his business to the opposite extremity of the 
town, SO that we had not so often seen him of late. 

I was well pleased just then to see the man of 
leather at our board being nowise disposed to do the 
talking which I knew of old would be done by him 
in first-rate style, as to quantity. 

“ Why, Mr. Elliott ! I’m glad to see you !” I said, 
“ its so long since I’ve had that pleasure — how goes 
trade these times ?” 

“ If you mean the shoe-trade, Mr. Kerr !” said the 
cheery little man, rubbing his hands as he eyed the 
tempting viands, sweetmeats, and so forth, to attack 
which we were just on the march, “ if you mean the 
shoe-trade, I ain’t in that line any more.” 

“ Do you tell me so ? — there, take your seat near 
Mrs. Kerr — and what, may I ask, are you doing now?” 

“ Preaching, my dear sir, preaching,” and Elliott 
pulled up his shirt-collar, and affected an indifference 
of tone, in evident contradiction to the swelling im- 
portance of his manner. 

“ Preaching !” I involuntarily repeated ; “ is it 
possible ?” 

“ Oh yes, sir, it’s a fact. I’ve got a call from a 
congregation up Hartford side — a good one, too, I 
assure you.” 


18 


206 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


“ Oh ! I’ve no doubt of that — but how — how did 
you get qualified — I mean how did your congregation 
come to know of your capability ?” 

“ Why, as to that, sir,” said the man of trade, 
with the slightest possible shade of pique in his man- 
ner, “ if you were ever at any of our class-meetings, 
or prayer-meetings, you wouldn’t need to ask that 
question. Miss Samuels there can tell you that I’ve 
been asked to conduct prayer-meetings farther away 
than where I’m called to now. I have had some 
little gifts in the way of prayer and expounding, too, 
for that matter, ever since — ever since Miss Samuels 
and I used to teach Sunday school together in Mr. 
Hopham’s church.” f 

Kow the Mr. Hopham aforesaid had departed this 
life, as a handsome monument in his church-yard 
testified, just eight-and-twenty years before, and Miss 
Samuels, who was trying to look her best and young- 
est, was evidently little obliged for this gratuitous 
hint about her age. Still she kept her temper won- 
derfully, and gave willing testimony to “the gifts ” 
before mentioned, together with her own private 
opinion that Mr. Elliott had been actually hiding his 
candle under a bushel so long as he gave up his 
valuable time to the covering of men, women, and 
children’s pedal extremities. Hearing this Mr. Elliott 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


207 


looked exultingly at me, and then greedily at a most 
appetizing plate of “ dough-nuts ” which stood neaF 
Miss Olive. The former look was responded to by a 
very sincere expression of satisfaction on my part, 
that the rhetorical powers (I should have said vocal) 
of our friend Elliott had been at length appreciated ; 
in reply to the latter more expressive glance Miss 
Samuels presented the “ dough-nuts.” 

.Having masticated the savory morsel in a silence 
that was plainly luxurious, Mr. Elliott opened his 
eyes very wide, and fixed them on Miss Samuels, as 
though instinct directed him to the fabricator. 

“ I tell you them are awful good eating,” said he, 
“ did you make them. Miss Samuels ?” 

Aunt Olive smiled and tried to blush, and Eve 
hastened to say for her what her peculiar modesty 
would not permit herself to say. 

“ Oh yes, Mr. Elliott, all our good things are made 
by Aunt Olive.” 

The new minister gave a grunt, whether of admira- 
tion or of satisfaction I could not make out. He 
was very taciturn during the remainder of the meal, 
and quite sententious in his answers when addressed. 
My wdfe and her aunt evidently respected the good 
man’s change of manner, which they, no doubt, as- 
cribed to the fullness of the spirit w^aking within 


208 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


him. To my attentive and more impartial eyes he 
was occupied with some weighty matter, requiring 
“ nice con-sid-er-a-tion,” as Sir Patrick O’Plenipo says 
in the play. Ever and anon he pursed out his lips 
in the peculiar fashion of fleshy men when they set 
about thinking; then he would heave a. sigh — ^not 
your melancholy, discontented sigh, but one that 
denoted reflection ; then he would cast a dreamy, 
half-conscious look over the well-covered table, and 
end with a glance of doubtful meaning at the unin- 
viting countenance of my aunt-in-law. Immersed in 
thought as he was, Mr. Elliott took good care to 
leave nothing on the table untasted, and apparently 
he found all very much to his liking. 

After supper, the minister took me one side, and 
told me he had just been thinking that in his new 
l>osition he would require a helpmate ; not a young 
chit who might possibly give scandal by her love of 
dress,* and even worse than that, but a sober, staid, 
God-fearing woman, who would enforce his preaching 
by her example — ” 

“ And make good ‘ dough-nuts,’ Mr. Elliott, eh ?” 
and I smiled. 

“Well, that too, Mr. Kerr, that too,” and the 
minister’s eyes twinkled. 

“ We’re a-going to have lots of flour and butter, 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE 209 

and all such matters sent to us — of course — and there 
ain’t anybody can care for things, or take such an in- 
terest in them as a man’s wife. To preach 'well, Mr. 
Kerr, a man wants to eat well, and to eat well a man 
wants a good cook.” 

“ To be sure, Mr. Elliott, to be sure. Kow I think 
I know one will answer you to a t. What would 
you think of Miss Samuels there ?” 

I could hardly preserve my gravity, but the cleri- 
cal gentleman was quite serious, and caught eagerly 
at the word. 

“That’s just what I was coming to Mr. Kerr! 
She’s the very person — her appearance will make 
folks respect us both, and her example will do good 
among the hearers, I have no doubt. But, my dear 
sir,” he drew a step neai-er, and took me by the 
button, then raised himself on his toes, and whis- 
pered with thrilling emphasis that under the circum- 
stances was quite pathetic. “ But, my dear sir, will 
the lady be agreeable ? — I have nothing yet but the 
calif slightly elevating his voice at the latter word. 

In the fullness of my glad surprise, and the tumult 
of newly aw'akened hope, I took it upon me to 
answer for the “ agreeableness ” of Miss Olive, assur- 
ing Mr. Elliott, at the same time, that he might 
depend on our best offices with our valuable relative. 

18 * 


210 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


It is needless to say that the amiable and pious 
spinster was excellently well disposed to fill up the 
void so l^ng existing in Mr. Elliott’s side. Whether 
it was the evangelically-soothing prospect of cooper- 
ating with the gifted shoe-maker in doling out doc- 
trine by word and work, or the economically gratify- 
ing one of having a larder supplied on such easy 
terms as Elliott described, she professed herself quite 
willing to undertake the twofold responsibility, nor 
shrank from the naming of an “ early day,” viz. : 
that day week, being the one appointed for Mr. 
EUiott’s start. 

I did not ask Eve, nor neither did she tell me how 
she felt during the week of prejjaration, and on the 
great day which saw chubby Mr. Elliott bear off his 
blooming bride and her wealth of five-and-forty years. 
For my own part I witnessed the departure of Aunt 
Olive without a single “ drappie in my e’e,” and 
indeed with sentiments of entire resignation. I was 
very sincere, however, in my congratulations and 
good wishes, secretly hoping that the good-natured 
man of grease might find all and more than all the 
comfort he expected in his lady-love and her cookery, 
with which I, for one, was quite willing to dispense. 
Before she left our house, she was closeted with my 
wife for a longer time than I would have liked, and 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 211 

the nature of her parting communication may be 
inferred fiTun the closing wor,ds which I chanced 
to overhear as the pair issued together from the back 
parlor : 

“ Above all, keep a close eye to the children — I ' 
have sowed good seed in their young minds, see to 
it. Eve, that it produces good fruit. Beware of 
Romish influences, my dear, for they are abroad, I 
tell you ! Remember the blood that flows in your 
veins, and disgrace not the memory of your father 
by allowing his grand-children to stray from the way 
of righteousness.” 

The fruit of this “ solemn injunction ” was an in- 
creased strictness on the part of Eve in watching 
over her children’s (supposed) spiritual welfare. Im- 
pressed with the responsibility of her position, she 
became quite religious on my hands, and unfortu- 
nately her watchful care was not confined to the chil- 
dren. I came in for my share of it, and henceforward 
every word and action of mine was scrutinized and 
taken note of for critical dissertation. Nothing could 
be more annoying than this change in Eve, whose 
lightness of heart and elasticity of mind were sud- 
denly destroyed as by a crushing weight. All that 
superabundance of gaiety which had shed a charm 
6ver the darkest years of my life had vanished, as it 


212 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


were, instantaneously, and the sprightly, witty little 
Eve, more French than Xew Englandish in mind and 
manner, all at once threw off her brilliant plumage 
and appeared before my mortified and astonished 
eyes in the leaden dullness of the paternal nature. 
Sharp as fanatic zeal could make her, and peculiarly 
exacting as regarded my religious views, because of 
my Romish antecedents. Eve took upon herself the 
office of inquisitor, and from that day forward, the 
common inheritance of “free-will” was virtually a 
dead letter for me. At least Eve would have made 
it so, but the half-extinguished spirit of manhood 
rose up in arms within me, and I assumed a defiant 
and swaggering air which must have surprised my 
wdfe quite as much as it grieved and pained her. It 
was not that I ever went so far with my independ- 
ence as to approach the assertion of my real convic- 
tions with regard to religion. That I w^ould have 
considered tantamount to disgrace, and pretty certain 
of being followed by the loss of that position for 
which I had sacrificed so much. With reckless des- 
peration I clung to the outward form of Protestant- 
ism, wffiich I still knew and felt to be a rotten shell. 
Such as it was, however, I believed that it secured 
me wealth and consideration amongst men, and for 
that I prized it even when my heart and soul w^ere 


contSissions of an apostate. 


213 


most deeply stamped with the burning brand of 
Catholicity scorching and withering with its fiery 
faith. 

When the ominous struggle of which I have spoken 
was just at the highest, I received a letter from my 
eldest brother, enclosing a money letter which I had 
sent to my mother some two months before. My 
letter was unopened, and my cheek burned, and my 
heart throbbed as I turned to my brother’s letter for 
explanation. 


214 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


CHAPTER Xiy. 



Y brother’s letter spoke in this wise : 
“ Mister Simon Kerrigan, I write you 
these few lines, the last. Pm thinkin’, 
that you will ever get from me, barr- 
in’ God tufns His hand with you, and 
sure enough it’s the back of His 
hand He has to you now, any way. 
Your mother sends you back your 
letter — she doesn’t know from Adam 
what’s in it, or what’s not, but she 
wouldn’t touch a penny of your 
money on any account. Her .heart 
was black with grief when she heard 
of your marryin’ a Prodestan, and ever since she had 
no grah for takin’ your money, but of late she got word 
from some one in Boston that you had sold yourself 
body and soul for the dirty dross of this world, and 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


215 


from that day to this she wouldn’t let one of us men- 
tion your name to her, and I’m sure all she cried 
was enough to melt the eyes in her head. Don’t 
ever write another word to her, nor attempt to send 
her money, unless you get out of the devil’s grip, 
for which she’ll pray God, she says, every day and 
hour of her life. But her days won’t be long. I’m 
thinhin’ myself, for the crush that she got when she 
heard of your turnin’, she’ll never get over in this 
woild. Nobody ’id ever know that they seen her 
before, for her face is got the color of death, and her 
eyes sunk back in her head, and she’s bent a’most 
two double. As you’re doin’ so well, you’ll have all 
the better luck for finishin’ your good mother, the 
kind, and lovin’ mother that was a credit to us all, 
and well thought of by rich and poor. But then, I 
suppose, you got to be ashamed of her since you set 
up for a gentleman, and took to the Prodestans. 
Well, if you are ashamed of her, don’t be tryin’ to 
cheat the devil in the dark — leave her to us, and 
we’ll support her, plase the Lord ! ay, and keep her 
comfortable, too, which we’re both able and wiHin’ 
to do. She’s ashamed of you, anyhow, and not all 
as one, she has good reason, for you have done what 
not one of your breed, seed, or generation ever done, 
and the load of disgrace that’s on her is too heavy 


216 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


for her to bear. Only that charity binds her to pray 
for you as she would for any other sinner, she’d never 
let your name cross her lips, though it’s hard enough 
for the mother to have to turn her face agin the child 
of her heart, but she bids me tell you that the enemy 
of God can be no child of hers, and them that could 
throw themselves overboard out of Peter’s bark are 
out of her reach altogether. She’ll pray God all her 
days that the fiery waves of hell may not swallow 
you up till you get the grace of bein’ converted back 
again, and makin’ your peace with God, and the 
Blessed Virgin Mother of Christ, and all the holy 
Saints and Angels that you’ve scandalized and in- 
sulted. As for Father O’Byrne, he can hardly be- 
lieve it yet that you’d fall away from the true faith 
— he still hopes that we’ll find it all a mistake, for he 
says he knows you better than any one li\dn’, and 
he’s full sure you could never be a Prodestan. Un- 
less you can tell us that his reverence is in the right, 
you need never write a scrowl to us, for you’ll get it 
back with postage to pay, and a word you’ll never 
hear from one belongin’ to you. I don’t want to 
sign myself your brother, but I’m bound to remain 
your well-wisher, Nicholas Kereigan.” 

All the grief I had ever known was nothing to 
what I endured on reading this letter. Sorrow, 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSl’ATE. 


217 


shame, remorse, were for a while the alternate pos- 
sessors of my unhappy soul, and ,at various times I 
wished myself dead, httle heeding the additional 
guilt I thereby incurred in the sight of God. After 
some time, my thoughts (if thoughts they were) took 
a new turn. Pride asserted dominion over all the 
Other passions, and immediately the tumult of their 
warfare was hushed into ominous silence. I all at 
once found out that I was a badly-used man, that my 
mother was after all neither more nor less than a 
bigot, and hadn’t the heart of a mother, or she 
wouldn’t be so severe on her own child. As for my 
brother Nicholas and the rest of them, they had the 
impudence of tl.e Old Boy, and his ingratitude to 
boot, or they wouldn’t presume to speak to me in 
such a way — to me who could buy them all from the 
gallows — to me who had a carriage and pair, and ser- 
vants to command, and the chief business of New 
Haven in my hands, I’d have them to know I wouldn’t 
take any of their impudence, anyhow, and so I meant 
to write to them, and so I did write, with the lauda- 
ble intention of striking the iron while it was hot 
As for Father O’Byrne, I requested Nicholas to let 
him know I had left the Romish Church, and felt all 
the better for it. My hand trembled, and an ice-bolt 
shot through my heart as I wrote the idle and desper- 
19 


218 


CONPESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


ate bravado — the sign-manual of my own condemna- 
tion. But pride and reven>ge — ay, revenge ! were at 
my elbow guiding the pen, and I wrote, at their dic- 
tation, words of almost incoherent rage, for my soul 
was in a whirl, and I took no time to consider what 
I put doTvm. Fearing lest my resolution should fail 
on reflection, I hastily sealed the precious epistle, and 
walked as fast as my feet could carry me to the Post- 
office, nor stopped till I saw the missive deposited 
amongst the Boston letters on the official shelf. I 
strutted home in an ecstatic state of self-laudation, 
and in the efiervescence of my exultation, what should 
I do but show Nicholas’ letter to my wife, and re- 
peated as nearly as I could what I had written to him 
in reply, or as I termed it, bow I had paid him off*. 
That was the unlucky revelation for me, for the peru- 
sal of Nicholas’ letter, and, indeed, the whole afiair, 
struck Eve as something so very ludicrous that all her 
recently-acquired seriousness was not proof against it, 
and she laughed as I had not seen or heard her laugh 
for months’ long. Nor was the effect transient, for ever 
after when she took it into her head to teaze me, she 
was sure to fall back to “ brother Nicholas’ letter ” for 
a quotation, which she repeated in such grotesque 
fashion that I had often to laugh myself when suffer- 
ing most acutely from false shame and mortification. 


CO^iFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


219 


This continued for months long, and then ceased 
only because the lucklerss letter as'sumed a lugubrious 
hue and acquired a sorrowful meaning from the 
intelligence — curtly and bitterly communicated — ^that 
my mother had at last sunk beneath her sorrows. 
This new's sobered Eve completely, and I could see 
that she even reproached herself for having so often 
made free with the name of her who was now beyond 
the reach of praise, or ridicule, or censure. For me, 
I was utterly prostrated by the weight of a blow so 
unexpected. The loss of my mother would have 
been at any time a severe affliction, for, to say the 
truth, I always cherished at heart the memory of her 
virtues, and a grateful recollection of her tender care. 
But now — now when I could not but consider myself 
as, at least, accessory to her death, the flood of 
grief, swelled by the murky stream of remorse, over- 
flowed every farculty of my being, and I was literally 
benumbed with accumulated anguish. 

“ The hand of God is on me,” said I, “ and I am 
but reaping the whirlwind where I sowed the storm. 
Still the punishment is too great for the offence. 
My sin is grievous, I know, but the penalty is iread- 
ful. To kill my mother — oh, God ! why was I born 
for such a fate ?” 

Thus it was that my hard, unregenerate heart, 


220 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


although tortured with remoi se, was as yet insensible 
to repentance, and instead of humbling myself before 
the outraged majesty of Heaven, I cried out and 
howled in impotent despair, accusing the God of all 
goodness, the God whom I had once loved as the 
kindest of fathers, of too great severity in my 
regard. 

Had repentance then touched my soul, had I re- 
turned like the Prodigal in the Gospel, to the ever 
open arms of my Father, much after suffering might 
have been spared me, for the temporal punishment 
of my transgressions might not have been so heavy. 
But no, I persisted in the way my dogged pride 
suggested, resolutely closing my ear to the silvery 
accents of my better angel. 

The death of my mother was only the prelude to a 
long series of misfortunes. My children, the pride 
of my heart, and the solace of my wretchedness, 
from being the healthiest in the town to all appear- 
ance, sickened one after the other and died of various 
diseases, until at last but one remained, Joel our 
eldest son, the first-born of the family. In him, then, 
all our hopes were centered, and as far as mind and 
person went, he gave fair promise. The boy inherited 
from his mother much of that fatal beauty which had 
won me from my God, and much too of the buoyant 


COJfFESSIONS or AN APOSTATE. 


221 


spirits and sportive gaiety which came down to him 
from his French graaidame. These latter qualities, 
together with a strong dash of Irish humor and a 
warm, genial heart, would have made Joel a most 
loveable character had he grown up under happier 
auspices. But as his aunt well said, she had laid a 
foundation of Puritanical ice down deep in Joel’s 
mind, and beneath it were buried the genial qualities, 
the w'arm affections, and the generous sentiments 
planted by nature in the boy’s soul. Never was gem 
so spoiled and defaced as my son’s heart, and, like a 
rare and cultivated vine on which a worthless wild 
one is engrafted, the fruit of his advancing years was 
bitter, and, alas ! that I should say it, poisonous. 
His mother and I made him our idol, especially after 
the death of our other children, and truly, truly, he 
became our curse. 

With a natural disposition such as I have described, 
and a ti’aining so pernicious, Joel grew up cold and 
heartless — he had no religion in reality, but affected 
a good deal. With all the precocious Teutonic 
gravity which had distinguished his uncle J osiah at 
the same age, he had a sub-strata of Celtic fire that 
was ever smouldering beneath, and at intervals shoot- 
ing upwards through the dark, marly surface in a 
way that filled me with anxiety, the greater and the 
19 * 


222 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


more intolerable because I dared not give it utter- 
ance. Eve, with all the partiality of a doting mother 
for her only child, was still far from being insensible 
to Joel’s faults, although she gave him credit for 
more religion, much more, than he really had. She 
would complain to me at times that J oel was wanting 
in affection, and that there was something about him 
she never could understand. “ He is so very silent,” 
she would say, “ and has such long fits of musing — 
but then he is so pious, it must be the workings of 
the Spirit that are going on within him. He reflects 
much, I think, on the things which appertain to 
heaven.” 

It would have made me smile at any other time 
to hear Eve talk in such wise (although of late years 
she was, as I have said, quite a different person), but 
this subject was too painful to me permit of mirth or 
levity, and notwithstanding that I tried to reassure 
Eve, my own heart was heavy with sad forebodings. 

The first notable transgression of our unfortunate 
son was the seduction of a pretty young American 
girl, one of our “ help,” who went home to her 
parents on account of her health, as it were. We 
afterwards learned that Joel had been supporting her 
for some months, but finding the tax rather heavy 
for his liking, he suddenly stopped the supplies and 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


223 


declared against doing anything more. Tlie conse- 
quence was tl>at the whole was revealed to us by the 
angry damsel. Joel was at the time on a visit to 
Aunt Olive. We sent for him, and he came, but 
instead of being ashamed, or touched by our agonized 
reproaches, he laughed and answered us with a coarse 
jest, justifying himself by the example of the older 
patriarchs. As to the unhappy child that had been 
born to him, he refused even to look at it. His 
mother, however, seeing that he did not attempt to 
deny his guilt, sent the forlorn creature to nurse, but 
from that day till the day she died, no sound of 
mirth escaped her wan lips, no smile beamed on her 
wasted although still beautiful features. Had I had 
my will the fellow should never have sat at my table 
again, but his mother, with more forbearance, repre- 
sented that by banishing him from our presence, we 
might only make him desiderate and lose all hold on 
him for the time to come. The effect of my Catholic 
training still clung to me, and although I gave in to 
Eve’s reasoning, I could not look at Joel for months 
after without a feeling of disgust. This he was not 
slow to discover, and he assumed, in consequence, a 
brazen indifference that was still more offensive. 
Sometimes when my temper could not brook his 
saucy swaggering, I opened upon him in a vein of 


224 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


bitter invective which, instead of doing good, roused 
the devil in his heart. The mocking laugh, the scath- 
ing taunt which scorched my very brain I was obliged 
to endure as b^st I might, for the least threat of 
punishment, the least appearance of passion on my 
part, brought on either a violent fit of crying or 
perhaps a fainting fit on that of his mother whose 
failing health and strength excited my tenderest sym- 
pathy, She had become so gentle, too, and so con- 
siderate, so grateful for any effort made to please her 
that, in the absence of any higher motive, it gave me, 
unspeakable pleasure to soothe and console her 
bruised and sorrowing heart. “ She is worse than 
childless,” would I say to myself, as I looked through 
my tears at her faded face, and her prematurely-bent 
form ; “ what on earth has she to console her, and 
w^hat is there in her religious belief to give her solid 
hopes for hereafter ? She talks like one in a dream 
of ‘ the Lord Jesus,’ but I see, oh ! too plainly, that 
His peace is not within her. Well! what can I do 
for her ? — how could I begin to talk to her of the 
saving doctrines which would make her happy — I 
who have rejected, or appeared to reject them ? — ah ! 
wretch ! the doom of your apostacy is on all you 
love, involving them in your destruction !” 

One night, just when Eve had apparently reached 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


225 


the last stage of weakness, I had lain awake most 
of the night listening to her low, plaintive moans, 
and watching, by the light of the flickering night- 
lamp, the hectic flush that was burning on her hollow 
cheek as she tossed about in the feverish slumber of 
disease. Towards morning sleep overcame my fears 
and sorrows, and I fell into a hea^^- slumber. 

All at once my restless spirit was transported to 
Glendalough, and by the grey light of early morning, 
as it seemed to me, I looked down from the brow of 
old Lugduff on the long-unseen but well-remembered 
haunts of my boyish days. But alas ! even in a 
dream I was not as I had been in those fresh young 
years. I was a man, and the crimes and sorrows of 
my manhood were with me in that solitude. Op- 
pressed by the weight of my “ thick-coming fancies,” 
and the awful stillness which reigned in the sacred 
valley, I bowed my head between my hands and 
wept. Suddenly an icy chill shot through my veins, 
my hair stood on end, and a dreary consciousness 
came over me that I was not alone — that I stood in 
the presence of some disembodied spirit. By an 
almost mechanical impulse I raised my head, and 
there within two feet of me stood the sheeted form 
of my mother, her ghastly eyes flxed full on me from 
under the hood of her brown Carmelite death-habit. 


226 


CONFESSIONS DF AN APOSTATE. 


I felt as though I could have sunk through the 
ground, and involuntarily moved a step or two away, 
but the figure moved after me and the power of 
motion suddenly left me. Speech, too, failed me, 
and there I stood face to face with the phantom, gaz- 
ing into her soulless eyes, and feeling as though the 
marrow in my bones was withering away for fear. 
At last I sank on one knee, partly from exhaustion, 
and strove to articulate a question. The figure 
slowly raised her right hand and pointed to the large 
white cross on the front of her habit, then stretched 
her arm towards the opposite mountains. I turned 
and looked. Great God ! how awful was the sight 
that met my eyes. High over the mountain-crest 
where the clouds had just cleared from before the 
blue sky, a fiery cross of immense proportions was 
distinctly visible. 

“ Merciful God !” I cried in anguish, “ is this the 
day of wrath ?” 

Not yet,” said a sepulchral voice from the motion- 
less figure near me, “ but by that cross you shall be 
judged. Wretched sinner, you have trampled on it 
— beware the vengeance of the man-God who died 
thereon ! Do penance, or you perish miserably.” 

“ Mother ! mother I” I almost screamed, “ what 
am I to do ? — can I ever hope for jiardon ?” 


CONFESSIONS OP AN APOSTATE. 


•227 


“ You can,” said the hollow voice, “ repent and do 
penance, and your sins though red as scarlet shall 
become white as wool. But for a sign and in punish- 
ment of your apostacy, your idols of flesh shall be 
broken and destroyed — so says the Lord of hosts !” 

The oracular voice was silent, and before I could 
murste;; courage to speak again, the unearthly visitor 
had melted into thin air, and I was again alone witji 
tlie elements and the mighty hills. 

I awoke with a start and found myself covered 
with a cold sweat. I was trembling from head to 
foot, and had hardly power to answer Eve who said 
she had been some time trying in vain to rouse me 
from what appeared to be a kind of fit. 

“ Oh ! Eve,” said I, “ I have had a horrible dream 
— too horrible to tell yow.” 

“ Alas, Simon !” said my wife with a sorrowful 
shake of the head, “ I fear that is nothing new. It 
seems to me as though you never have any other but 
horrible dreams.” 

“ Why do you think so ?” 

“ Why, because I hear your strange mutterings 
and see your convulsive twitchings. It does not 
surprise me, however, considering that your heart is 
as the barren rock. You are as a sparrow on the 
house-top, Simon, far away from the Lord Jesus 


228 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


Avliom you know but in name. I much fear that the 
chain of Romish superstition still enslaves your soul.” 

I answered only with a groan, for the vision of 
that awful cross was before me, and the warning 
voice of my dead mother was ringing like a knell in 
my ears. And thus it has been since, and thus it 
will remain, I fear, till my dying day — that sight of 
terror ever before my eyes, that sound of woe and 
malediction ever in my ears and in the deepest cells 
f my heart. 


COIO'ESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


229 


CHAPTER XV. 


T 


HAT fearful vision took such hold on 
my imagination that I could not get 
rid of it, do as I would. Terror had 
taken possession of all my faculties, 
and the fiery cross had impressed its 
image on my soul as with a red-hot 
brand. The bonds that chained me to 
earthly things seemed suddenly snapt 
asunder — all save the one that bound 
my heart to Eve. Rather, it was, 
that in that one tie all the others were 
absorbed, and I could in no way ac- 
count for the fresh and strong impulse 
which my love for her had received of late. My son 
I could not love — my mother was dead — rAj brothers 
a-nd sisters had cast me out from the family-circle. 
All this happened long before, and yet I was no more 
20 


230 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


drawn tc Eve than for the last few listless years I 
had been. How was it, then, that after that dreary 
night, when all other feeling and affections were, as 
it were, obliterated from my being, my heartstrings 
seemed to cling around her with a sort of tenacity 
and energy never known before. Ah ! I could not 
see it then, in my half pagan state, but now I see it 
as in a glass. It was yet another proof of God’s 
scathing anger, yet another stroke of His divine 
justice, to increase the severity of my punishment 
and make it reach every fibre of my hea^t. In and 
through her had I sinned, in and through her was 
judgment to be executed on my guilty head. 

About a month after that (to me) memorable night, 
we had a visit from Aunt Olive and her reverend 
partner, and as Eve had really, as I said before, a 
sort of affection for her aunt, her presence, together 
wnth the half-vulgar, half-clerical and most profuse 
chit-chat of good Mr. Elliott seemed to amuse and 
revive her more than a little. My spirits rose in pro- 
portion, and I felt the dreary load somewhat light* 
ened on my heart. Even Aunt Olive herself was 
far less acrid than usual, ’and once or twice during 
the first day’s dinner I actually saw her smile. As 
for Elliott he looked the very picture of good-nature, 
being on the best possible terms with himself and all 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


231 


the world. I verily think that he would have cheer- 
fully hob-a-nobbed with the Pope himself had he 
appeared in hi-s proper person on the opposite side of 
the table with a quart decanter of fine old Port 
standing on guard between. It was easy to see that 
the good man’s heart overflowed with the kindliest 
feelings towards all mankind as he turned up his 
cuffs, and whetted his knife for the great work of 
dissecting a noble turkey which, with the concomi- 
tant oyster-sauce, was placed before him. Oh ! the 
unction with which he pronounced his “ grace,” his 
eyes taking in, the while, the rare proportions of the 
savory bird before him. 

Amid all the social warmth and unwonted cheer- 
fulness w’hich made our board a truly festive one that 
day, Joel, our son, remained dull and silent. Gloomy 
and morose he sat, taking no apparent interest in 
what was going forward, but feeding like a ghole, 
for his appetite was at all times remarkable. A sar- 
donic smile played around his finely-curved mouth, 
but it was evidently in connection with his own dark 
imaginings. Many a sorrowful look was exchanged 
between his mother and myself as we glanced 
towards him, for I think I had never seen him look 
more attractive than he did that day. His face was 
of that transparent kind that reflects or exposes 


232 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


every passing emotion of the mind, and there was a 
fascination in his ever-changing features and in the 
occasional glance of his lustrous eyes that riveted 
attention, do as one would. 

But stiU he persisted in his dogged silence, either 
vouchsafing no reply when any one spoke to him, or 
making some vague, half-conscious answer that was 
little less provoking than his silence. Every one 
noticed it, even Aunt Olive, whose favorite Joel had 
always been. For my part, I was so indignant that 
I could not wait till dinner was over to express my 
opinion of his conduct, especially as there were no 
strangers present. I had asked him a question with- 
out receiving any answer, and even his mother looked 
displeased at his contemptuous conduct. 

“ Did you hear me speak to you ?” said I, raising 
my voice. 

“No really, father ! — what did you say ?” 

“ What I said is not of much consequence, but I 
want you to know that you must answer me when I 
speak to you. Here have you been sitting like a 
statue since dinner commenced, hardly condescending 
to open your lips to any of us. I tell you once for 
all, Joel ! I won’t put up with such conduct, so make 
up your mind to mend your manners, or we’ll see 
who is to be master in this house.” 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 233 

The blood rushed to Joel’s face, and his eyes 
gleamed on me with a strange expression. “ I guess 
my manners are as good as yours,” said he, “ do you 
think I’m going to be drilled and lectured by such 
as you ?” 

“Joel! Joel!” cried his mother, “why do you 
speak so to your father ?” 

“ My father !” he repeated with bitter emphasis ; 
“ it’s my misfortune that he is my father — ” 

“ Leave the room,” I shouted in a voice husky 
with rage. 

“ I won’t leave the room,” said my hopeful son ; 
“ you have no right to order me so in my grand- 
father’s house ! — it belongs to my mother and not 
to you !” 

Joel and I had both risen, and we now stood glar- 
ing on each other with the fiercest anger. Aunt 
Olive and her husband each put in a remonstrance, 
the latter begging of me to keep my temper and the 
former reminding Joel that the disobedient child was 
accursed of God. 

“ Nonsense, aunt !” said Joel, turning fiercely on 
her ; “ don’t talk to me of obedience to such a father 
as I’ve got — thanks to my mother’s folly ! — if there 
is a God — which ain’t very clear to me — he don’t 
require a fellow to be trampled under foot in a free 
20 *^ 


234 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


country by an alien, and — ” be stopped short and 
looked at me as though he feared to finish the 
sentence. 

“ And what ?” I cried, roused to desperation ; 
“ what besides an alien ?” 

“ Joel !” said his mother, in a faint but fearfully 
agitated tone, “ be silent, I command you ! — not a 
word as you love me !” 

“ He shall speak I cried in a choking voice, and 
I swore a dreadful oath ; “ he shall lay bare his black 
heart this moment. Speak, young man ! what other 
foul name were you going to give me ?” 

“ I think you know it yourself,” said Joel, his 
face now pale as death ; “ if you have a conscience, 
ask ii — ” 

“ Hame it you !” I almost shrieked ; “ what am I 
— a Papist ?” 

“ Worse even than that — an apostate and a 

HYPOCEITE !” 

Maddened to hear my own son become my accuser, 
the words had scarcely passed his lips when I sprang 
on him and felled him to the ground with a blow of 
my clenched fist. The blood gushed from his mouth 
and nostrils, and he lay without sense or motion 
before me. 

A wild, heart-rending scream burst from his mother. 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


235 


She tried to rush towards him, but her strength 
failed her and she fell back pale and trembling in her 
chair, while Aunt Olive and Mr. Elliott raised Joel 
between them. I saw by their looks that they 
thought him dead, and yet with the stolid indifference 
of despair I threw myself into a seat and looked on 
as though nowise concerned. 

This evidently shocked Eve yet more than the 
fatal blow. “ Simon,” said she in a voice of preter- 
natural energy considering her weakness, “ Simon, 
do you know that you have killed your son — that the 
blood of your first-born is on your hand which shall 
henceforth be accursed of God and man !” 

“ I don’t care — I couldn’t be more accursed than 
I was. An apostate and a hypocrite ? — ha ! ha ! ha ! 
The boy spoke the truth, but it wasn’t for him to say 
it — he’ll never say it again, anyhow !” and without 
another word or a glance at Joel I left the room, and 
ascending to my own chamber locked myself in. 
There I spent the remainder of the day in gloomy 
musings. Brooding over the dismal effects of my 
transgressions, and entirely absorbed in selfish sor- 
row that was not remorse, I neither heeded the lapse 
of time nor thought of the possible sufferings of 
others. It appeared to me more than probable that 
my unfortunate son had paid the penalty of his life 


236 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


for his atrocious disobedience, but as yet the storm 
of passion had not subsided, nor had repentance soft- 
ened my heart in any degree ; even the possible conse- 
quences of my unnatural crime never crossed my 
mind. An hour or so after I left the dinning-room a 
gentle knock came to the door. It was repeated 
again and again, and at last I was forced to ask 
“ Who’s there ?” hoping to get rid of the intruder, 
yet trembling in anticipation of the direful news I 
might have to hear. I was answered by the soft 
voice of Eve, begging for admission. Now most 
people are glad and thankful to have some one to 
condole and sympathize with them in their misery, 
but not so me. I desired nothing else at that moment 
but to be alone, and I felt as though the presence of 
any one — but Eve of all people — would have been 
insupportable. The sight of her pale reproachful 
face would have been torture to me, now that I had 
made her, in all probability, a childless mother. 

“ Eve !” said I, affecting a sternness which I did 
not feel ; “ Eve ! I can’t let you in. Tell me, how- 
ever, is Joel dead ?” 

“ Oh, no — no, Simon ! it’s not so bad as that — he 
is ill, very ill, but not dead — oh ! not dead. The 
doctor says he may live. Come and see him, won’t 
you ?” 


COKFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


237 


“ Xot dead !” I repeated gruffly, endeavoring to 
conceal my satisfaction. “ Well ! it’s dead he ought 
to be !” 

“For shame, Simon! how can you hope to be 
forgiven if you forgive not ? Come and see poor 
Joel !” 

“ Did he ask to see me ?” 

“ Ko — ^but then his mind is wandering, you know !” 

“ Go away. Eve, and let me alone ! go to your son 
—he’s more to you than I am.” 

She still continued her expostulations, but all to no 
purpose. I spoke no more. At last she lost her 
patience and became angry. Words of bitterness 
escaped her lips which sank deep into my heart and 
made it hard as the granite rock. Within my soul 
was the dark, dogged, sullen spirit born of remorse 
and pride, and in Eve’s, the stern determination 
inherited from her Puritan fathers, a quality which 
on ordinary occasions was but little perceptible. 

“ Do you forget,” said she, “ that that room was 
mine before it was yours ?” 

“ [N’o matter for that — ^it is mine now — I will not 
open it I” 

“ You will not ?” 

“No ! — leave me alone, I want no companion in 
my misery.” 


238 


CONFESSIONS OP AN APOSTAFE. 


There was no reply, and I knew that Eve was 
gone. “ Now,” said I to myself, “ I know she has 
something in her head, for I never knew her to give 
way so easily when once her blood was up. I’ll see 
what she is up to.” 

Strange to say, at that moment, my curiosity swal- 
lowed up all other feelings, and in order to gratify 
it, I unlocked the door, and leaving it wholly unfas- 
tened, stationed myself in the shadow of a large, old- 
fashioned clothes-press on the lobby. 

I was not mistaken as to Eve’s intentions, nor had 
I to wait long. She came again up the stairs with a 
feeble step, holding by the banister, and followed by 
poor Phil Cullen’s successor in the garden, for Phil 
had gone the way of all flesh a few years before. 

Peeping anxiously from my concealment, I saw 
that my wife was ghastly pale and that her whole 
frame trembled with emotion. My heart was touched 
at her aj)pearance, and yet I was angry, very, very 
angry. 

The remonstrative voice of Elliott now drew off 
my attention for a moment from Eve. “ My dear Mrs. 
Kerr, take him gently,” said the man of peace, as he 
reached the stairhead puffing and blowing after the 
ascent. “ You know we have it in the Holy Book 
that a soft word turneth away wrath. Oh ! don’t — 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


239 


don’t now — let me speak to him before you do this 
thing !” 

Eve, wrapt up in the intensity of her own passion, 
heeded not the fi iendly remonstrances, but made a 
sign for the gardener to force the door. “ But stop 
a moment,” said she, “ perhaps it ain’t locked now.” 
So saying she placed her shoulder to the door to try 
it, and, leaning perhaps more heavily than she in- 
tended, from her weak state, the door went in, and 
with a scream of terror Eve fell forward. In an 
instant I had her in my arms, but she was quite 
insensible, nay, to all appearance, dead. I carried 
her in and laid her on her bed, and watched with the 
most excruciating anxiety the effect of the various 
restoratives applied by Aunt Olive and the women 
from the kitchen. Elliott had taken his wife’s place 
at Joel’s bedside to send her up to us, and to do the 
old lady justice, there fell more tears from her eyes 
over Eve’s inanimate form than I had ever supposed 
her capable of shedding. For me I retired into a 
corner of the room, and watched the progress of the 
various remedies. During the hour that my wife re- 
mained in that swoon I went through an age of suffer- 
ing. I already fancied myself alone in the world, and 
shrank into the depths of my wretched heart. 

Wlio can paint mj joy when, after an hoiir of 


240 CONFESSIONS OP AN APOSTATE. 

fruitless exertion, the vital spark manifested its pres- 
ence in a long-drawn sigh and a convulsive twitching 
of the limbs. Eve was restored to life, but not, 
alas ! to consciousness. The beautiful eyes opened 
again, but the light of reason was not in them. The 
voice even made itself heard, but in low incoherent 
muttcrings, broken by sighs and moans. 

That night I watched by Eve’s bed, watched with 
a never-closing eye, and a heart that scarcely beat. 
I was alone with the unconscious sufferer, for Aunt 
Olive watched by Joel, and others I would not admit, 
even good Mr. Elliott, whose officious kindness and 
trite homilies on resignation I dreaded of all things. 
It was dreadful during those long, dreary hours, to 
hear that low plaintive voice muttering complaints 
and reproaches, which conscience could not fail to 
apply to myself. Occasionally she uttered the names 
of her dead children, but of Joel she seldom spoke, 
except once or twice when she charged me with his 
death. 

She had been lying quite still for some time, and I 
thought she slept, when all at once she turned her 
eyes on me with something approaching to recollec- 
tion : “ There’s a curse on the family,” she said with 
startling energy, “ and it’s all along Simon’s doing. 
I guess he’d better have kept as he was.” 


COKFESSIOITS OF AN APOSTATE. 241 

Independent of the fearful meaning of her words, 

I was terrified, for I saw some alarming change tak- 
ing place, and I knew not what to do. I feared to 
leave the room to call assistance, which yet I desired 
with frantic eagerness. I threw open the door and 
called aloud for help, then raised Eve in my arms, 
and murmured words of endearment. It might have 
been that the familiar tones awoke her to conscious- 
ness for a brief moment, for she started, and her lip 
trembled as she looked at me again. 

“You’ve done 'wrong, Simon! — to sell your God 
for a wife — and I did wrong to ask you — ^I see — ^I see 
it now— forgive— forgive me !” 

Overjoyed to hear her speak rationally again, 1 
forgot for the moment her perilous condition and 
tried to reassure her. A melancholy shake of the 
head was her only answer. She spoke no more on 
earth, and before many minutes had gone by— they 
were an age to me— I laid her down in her last sleep 
— a lump of breathless clay. 

When Eve drew her last sigh it seemed as though 
the evil spell was broken that had so long held my 
soul in thrall. A load of sorrow weighed me down, 
selfish sorrow for her loss, but out of the darkness 
of my anguish came at last a ray of light. As I 
stood beside the lifeless body of her who had been 
21 


242 


CO^^ESSTO:^^S OP APOSTATE. 


all the world to me, an angel seemed to descend and 
trouble the pool of my OA’erwhelming sorrow, and 
forth from it came repentance, true, genuine, Christian 
repentance, such as I had never experienced before at 
any period of my life. 

As I looked upon the stark, rigid features that had 
been till late so mobile and expressive, and the eyes 
that were as liquid orbs of light now dark and dull 
and sightless, I said within myself : Can that be 
Eve Samuels ? — was it for that piece of flesh that I 
resigned my hopes of heaven ? — forfeited the love of 
mother and kindred — and cut myself off, a rotten 
branch, from the tree of life ? God of mercy, I am 
worse than dead in Thy sight — dead by my own act 
— a miserable suicide ! What doth it profit a man 
to gain the whole world if he lose his own soul ? 
Ay ! what, indeed, doth it profit him ? I gained the 
world — that is all I wanted, by my apostacy — what 
now remains of all, but some handfuls of the dross 
called money — ^money — ah ! what can it do for me ? 
Can it give me peace, or rest, or happiness, even 
here ? Can it save me one hour from the fatal stroke 
that has cut her down ? — oh, no ! no ! no ! — one good 
confession, one act of real contrition, one deed of 
mortification, once to kne^l at a Table which I dare 
not nan'e, would do more to heal my lacerated heart 


CONTESSIOXS OF AN APOSTATE. 


243 


than all the wealth of London ! Coarse and bitter 
are the husks which I have eaten since I wandered 
from my Father’s house. I will arise like the Prodi- 
gal and go back to my Father, for now I feel His 
gracious goodness in this darkest 'hour of my life — He 
beckons me from afar, holding out the Cross on which 
His Son died for me ! Ha ! the Cross ! it was to 
crush my idols of flesh — it has crushed them — they are 
utterly broken — the arm of vengeance has smitten 
them for my sins — mercy ! oh. Lord, mercy ! — spare 
my unhappy son — cut him not off in his wickedness 
— punish me, but spare him !” 

How long I remained in this mournful yet saving 
lethargy of woe I cannot tell, but when Aunt Olive 
towards morning came into the room, she found me 
kneeling beside the bed, the clay-cold hand of my 
dead wife locked in mine, and my eyes fixed in what 
appeared to her a trance. 

It was not till after Eve’s interment that I con- 
sented to see Joel, and I confess I entered his room 
in rather a hopeful spirit, for Aunt Olive and her 
husband had been trying to persuade me that he was 
disposed to repent his undutiful conduct. Half an 
hour’s discourse with him unfortunately dispelled the 
illusion. Dark and cynical and obdurate as ever, I 
found him to be. Ho even upbraided me with being 


244 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


accessory to his mother’s death, and said, with a 
sneer, that I must be ever so much disappointed to 
find HIM in the way of doing well. 

Smothering my anger as best I could, in obedience 
to the newly-awakened voice of religion, I strove to 
convince Joel of his error with regard to his mother’s 
death and my feeling towards her. I told him I 
forgave him all, and even asked his pardon for all the 
sufiering my unbridled passion had caused him. He 
laughed in my face, and asked did I think him so 
green as to believe all that stuff? This I could not 
bear, and telling him it would be long before I spoke 
to him again on any subject, I left the room and the 
house. 


CONFESSIONS OF AN AFOSTATE. 


245 


COKCLUSIOX. 



FEW Aveeks after Eve’s death, while my 
good dispositions were still fresh and 
vivid, an opportunity was aflbrded me 
to be reconciled to God. A mission 
was again given in the town, and, 
although it cost me a fearful struggle, I 
resolutely prepared myself for confes- 
sion, approached the sacred tribunal 
three or foui’ times during the week, 
and finally had the happiness of receiv- 
ing holy communion, after being pub- 
licly received back into the Church. 

Great was the horror, and greater still the indigna- 
tion of all New Haven, when it became known that 
Elder Kerr had gone bodily over to Rome. The 
whole town was in an uproar of indignant exclama- 
tion. Everybody talked to everybody about my 
miserable backsliding, and everybody told his or her 
21 * 


£46 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


neighbor that he or she never had faith in my princi- 
ples. It was all at once found out that I had been 
all along a suspicious character, and the only wonder 
was that Deacon Samuels could have been so deceived 
as to place confidence in me — above all to give me 
his daughter. 

When, on the day previous to his departure, I took 
the priest home with me to ‘dinner, the popular indig- 
nation reached its height. We were followed through 
the street by an angry crowd ^ of boys, and women, 
whose comments and apostrophes were anything but 
complimentary. So long as they did not proceed 
to actual violence, neither my companion nor myself 
cared much. For my part, I was well content to be 
reviled and abused, receiving it as my due, in a spirit 
of penance. “ I have beeii honored and looked up 
to by these people,” said I to myself, “ in virtue of 
my apostacy — it is retributive justice that I should 
now receive all contumely at their hands.” 

All was well, however, till Joel heard of what was 
going on. He was just able to walk about his room, 
but as yet had not ventured to leave it. To my 
great surprise he sent to ask me to visit him, and 
when I did, he asked me very gravely if it was true 
that a priest was in the house, and that I had gone 
ba(jk to Rome. 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


247 


“ For the latter part of it,” said he, “ I am not at 
all surprised, but I won’t stand it if you’ve brought 
a priest under this roof.” 

“ It is true, then, but, even so, Joel, I don’t well 
see how you can help yourself.” 

“ I’ll go down and kick him oiit !” 

“ Yourself shall be kicked out first. I’m master 
here, J oel ! and with God’s help. I’ll remain so, while 
I’m in it — which won’t be long !” 

“ The shorter the better, for you’re a disgrace to 
our family ! It’s well for you and the Romish hum- 
bug down stairs that I’m not able to do what I’d 
wish to do — I guess I’d raise the town about you 
both and make it too hot to hold you !” 

Had not divine grace enabled me to keep my 
temper there is no knowing what I might have done 
at the moment. As it was, I merely said, “ God con- 
vert you, Joel !” and returned to my honored guest. 

To think of continuing my business in Hew Haven 
with such a son and such a public prejudice against 
me was not to be thought of. I, therefore, made 
over the concern to Joel with the large stock then on 
hand,' notifying him on ^ paper that he had nothing 
more to expect from me, and that no further inter- 
course was to take place between us. To the latter 
clause he willingly agreed, impudently saying it was 


248 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


just what he wanted. As for “the concern” he 
didn’t thank me any, he said, for it was his by right. 

With a heavy heart I bade farewell to the graves 
of my wife and children, lingered a moment by the 
last resting-place of Deacon Samuels, and thought 
with many contending emotions of the luckless day 
w^hen he lured me away from my Boston employers, 
I little dreaming at the time of the fearful abyss 
yawning before me. Still I felt no bitterness towards 
the old man, although he was accessory to my evil- 
doings, and I dropt a tear to his memory as I turned 
my back on his stately tomb. What I felt on taking 
my last look of Eve’s fair name, illumined by the rays 
of the evening sun, it were useless all to tell, for 
who could sympathize with my heavy sorrow. Why 
lay bare to the gaze of strangers the torn and bleed* 
ing heart that was in my bosom ? For that sorrow 
religion had no balm, for it was not only my own loss 
I mourned, but the scandal I had given my precious 
wife, and the probable loss of her soul, through my 
odious fault. 

Her last words were ringing in my ears, like the 
voice of an accusing angel, and it was only the extra- 
ordinary fervor following on my conversion that kept 
me from falling into despair. 

The last sigh was heaved, however, and the last 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


249 


fond look taken, and I turned away from the spot 
where I could have lingered forever. I had consid- 
erable investments in the Boston banks, and to that 
city I directed my steps. There for twenty years I 
led an obscure and peaceful life,. 

The world forgetting, by the world forgot.” 

Most of my former acquaintances were either dead 
or gone no one knew whither, and, on the whole, I 
was glad of it. But even if any of them had seen 
me they would not have recognized the handsome 
and somewhat dandified young Irishman of their 
former knowledge with the sallow-faced care-worn 
old man — prematurely old — who showed little trace of 
his origin in his outward appearance. During the 
latter years of my Boston life, I had the happiness of 
contributing a large sum to the erection of a Church 
in New Haven, and the first priest who was sent 
thither was the same who, so many years before, had 
received me back into the Communion of the Church. 

As for Joel, he soon contrived to get rid of the 
business which had given a fortune to his grandfather 
and to me likewise. He left New Haven and I lost 
sight of him for some years until the time of the 
Native riots, when, happening to be in Philadelphia 
on a visit to a priest, I recognized my unhappy son 


250 


CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 


in a tall, brawny Hercules who was leading on the 
mob in the infuriate attack on St. Augustine’s Church. 
Never shall I forget the demoniacal expression of his 
once handsome features as he waved his arm and 
called on the others to burn down the “ Mass-house ” 
and clear the city of the rascally Irish. The sight 
has never since left my eyes ; sleeping and waking it 
is ever before me, and the thought of that hell- 
inspired ruffian being my son is like a fiery dart stick- 
ing for ever and ever in my heart. How I got away 
from the window, whence I had seen Joel, I cannot 
tell, but my heart was then and there made sick of a 
country where such guilt and misery had been my 
lot, and, I only waited to transfer my funded prop- 
erty to Dublin, then bade a final farewell to America, 
and turned my face homewards to the dear old land 
which in an evil hour I quitted. 

Many changes have passed over the face of the 
Green Isle since I left its rocky shores, — changes 
public and changes private have taken place amongst 
its people — the friends whom I loved and cherished 
have passed away, ah ! every soul, so that, with the 
aid of my altered appearance, I can pass myself off 
for a stranger, yet there is something in the very 
atmosphere which breathes of home. The warm 
hearts and loving eyes that cheered my boyhood are 


COXTESSIOKS OP AK APOSTATE. 


251 


gone,— the Uving friends are lost to sight, and I miss 
their enlivening presence, oh ! how much ! — but the 
inanimate friends — the old, familiar scenes remain. I 
have taken up my abode in the very house of my 
nativity— ruined, it is, and desolate, yet it is the shell 
which contained the kernel of my affections. The 
fields are as green, the sky as changeful, the moun- 
tains as grand, the sacred valley as lone and solemn, 
and, above all, the faith and piety of the people is 
still the same, simple, earnest, nothing doubting, all- 
performing. Oh I I am not alone here, one cannot 
be alone here, with the monuments of ages of faith 
around, and the same faith ever living and acting 
amongst the peoj^le. I can go and kneel by the 
graves of my parents and pray that my end may be 
like theirs, and I feel that the penitent tears I shed 
are acceptable to God, and that the spirits of those 
over whose ashes I weep may one day welcome me 
in glory when the last trace of my guilt is effaced by 
whatever process God pleases. Here, amid the soli- 
tude of the desert city, I meditate on the years I passed 
in a foreign land, and rejoice that the feverish dream 
is over. Where I herded my goats, a peasant-boy, I 
muse, an old and wrinkled man, on the path of life I 
have trodden. I stand at the opposite end of exist 
ence, and ask myself what is the difference. I have 


252 CONFESSIONS OF AN APOSTATE. 

had since what is called “ position,” I have wealth 
Still — ay ! a fortune, but what of that ? — I am old, 
friendless, childless, and alone^ burdened with harrow- 
ing recollections, and ready to sink into the grave un- 
honored and unknown. I was poor and unlearned in 
those days which I now looked back on with regret, 
but I had many hearts to love me ; “ r^ow,” said I 
bitterly to myself, “ I dare not breathe my name to 
any hereabouts, for the memory of my crime is tradi- 
tional amongst the people, and, did they recognize 
me, all the wealth I have would not bribe them to look 
with kindness on him who was once an Apostate !” 









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